THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  ILLINOIS 


LIBRARY 


•m  the  collection  of 
Lus  Doerner,  Chicago 
Purchased.  1918. 


M 

\ • 


Sfi 


’.'v  ■-• 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


THE 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

A TALE. 

BY 

REGINA  MARIA  ROCHE. 


A matchless  pair ; 

With  equal  virtue  formed,  and  equal  grace, 

The  same,  distinguished  by  their  sex  alone : 

Hers  the  mild  lustre  of  the  blooming  morn. 

And  his  the  radiance  of  the  risen  day. — Thomson. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  F.  O.  O.  DARLEl. 


CHICAGO,  BTEW  YORK,  SAN  FRANCISCO*. 

BELFORD,  CLARKE  & CO 


1889. 


DAftOHUE  & Hknnebkrry,  Printerc  and  Binders,  CinCAQO. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


CHAPTER  I. 

Yellow  sheafs  from  rich  Ceres  the  cottage  had  crowtied, 

Green  rushes  were  strewed  on  the  floor  ; 

The  casements  sweet  woodbine  crept  wantonly  round, 

And  decked  the  sod  seats  at  the  door.” — Cunningham. 

Hail,  sweet  asylum  of  my  infancy  ! Content  and  innoceL^ce 
reside  beneath  your  humble  roof,  and  charity  unboastful  of  the 
good  it  renders.  Hail,  ye  venerable  trees  ! my  happiest  hours 
of  childish  gayety  were  passed  beneath  your  shelter — then,  care- 
less as  the  birds  that  sung  upon  your  boughs,  I laughed  the 
hours  away,  nor  knew  of  evil. 

Here  surely  I shall  be  guarded  from  duplicity ; and  if  not 
happy,  at  least  in  some  degree  tranquil.  Here  unmolested  may 
I wait,  till  the  rude  ■;torm  of  sorrow  is  overblown,  and  my 
father’s  arms  are  again  expanded  to  receive  me. 

Such  were  the  words  of  Amanda,  as  the  chaise  (which  she 
had  hired  at  a neighboring  village  on  quitting  the  mail)  turned 
down  a little  verdant  lane,  almost  darkened  by  old  trees,  whose 
interwoven  branches  allowed  her  scarcely  a glimpse  of  her 
nurse’s  cottage,  till  she  had  reached  the  door. 

A number  of  tender  recollections  rushing  upon  her  mind,  ren 
dered  her  almost  unable  to  alight ; but  the  nurse  and  her 
husband,  who  had  been  impatiently  watching  for  the  arrival  of 
their  fondling,  assisted  her,  and  the  former,  obeying  the  dictates 
of  nature  and  affection,  half  stifled  her  with  caresses  ; the  latter 
respectfully  kissed  her  hand,  and  dropped  a tear  of  unutterable 
joy  upon  it.  Lort,  he  said,  he  was  surprised,  to  be  sure,  at  the 


4 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


alteration  a few  years  had  made  in  her  person— why,  it  seemed 
to  him  as  if  it  was  only  the  other  day  since  he  had  carried  her 
about  in  his  arms,  quite  a little  fairy.  Then  he  begged  to 
know  how  his  tear  old  captain  was,  and  Mr.  Oscar — and 
whether  the  latter  was  not  grown  a very  fine  youth.  Amanda, 
smiling  through  her  tears,  endeavored  to  answer  his  inquiries  ; 
but  she  was  so  much  affected  by  her  feelings,  as  to  be  scarcely 
able  to  speak  ; and  when,  by  her  desire,  he  went  out  to  discharge 
the  chaise,  and  assist  the  young  man  (who  had  travelled  with 
her  from  London)  to  bring  in  her  luggage,  her  head  sunk  upon 
her  nurse’s  bosom,  whose  arms  encircled  her  waist.  “ My  dear 
faithful  nurse,”  she  sobbed,  ‘‘your  poor  child  is  again  returned 
LO  seek  an  asylum  from  you.”  “ And  she  is  heartily  welcome,” 
replied  the  good  creature,  crying  herself,  “ and  I have  taken 
care  to  have  everything  so  nice,  and  so  tidy,  and  so  comfort- 
able, that  I warrant  you  the  greatest  laty  in  the  land  need  not 
disdain  your  apartments  ; and  here  are  two  little  girls,  as  well 
as  myself,  that  will  always  be  ready  to  attend,  serve  and  obey 
you.  This  is  Ellen,  your  own  foster-sister ; and  this  is  Betsey, 
the  little  thing  I had  in  the  cradle  when  you  went  away — and  I 
have  besides,  though  I say  it  myself  that  should  not  say  it,  two 
as  fine  lads  as  you  could  wish  to  see  ; they  are  now  at  work  at 
a farmer’s  hard  by  ; but  they  will  be  here  presently.  Thank 
Cot,  we  are  all  happy,  though  obliged  to  earn  our  own  bread  ; 
but  ’tis  sweeter  for  that  reason,  since  labor  gives  us  health  to 
enjoy  it,  and  contentment  blesses  us  all.”  Amanda  affection- 
ately embraced  the  two  girls,  who  were  the  pictures  of  health 
and  cheerfulness,  and  was  then  conducted  into  a little  parlor, 
which,  with  a small  bedchamber  adjoining  it,  was  appropriated 
to  her  use.  The  neatness  of  the  room  was  truly  pleasing  ; the 
floor  was  nicely  sanded  ; the  hearth  was  dressed  with  “ flowers 
and  fennel  gay;”  and  the  chimney-piece  adorned  with  a range 
of  broken  teacups,  “ wisely  kept  for  show  ; ” a clock  ticked 
behind  the  door  ; and  an  ebony  cupboard  displayed  a profusion 
of  the  showiest  ware  the  country  could  produce.  And  now  the 
nurse,  on  “ hospitable  thought  intent,”  hurried  from  Amanda 
to  prepare  her  dinner.  The  chicken,  as  she  said  herself,  was 
ready  to  pop  down  in  a minute  ; Ellen  tied  the  asparagus ; and 
Betsey  laid  the  cloth  ; Edwin  drew  his  best  cider,  and,  having, 
brought  it  in  himself,  retired  to  entertain  his  guest  in  th^ 
kitchen  (Amanda’s  travelling  companion),  before  whom  he  haa 
already  set  some  of  his  most  substantial  fare. 

Dinner^  in  the  opinion  of  Amanda,  was  served  in  a moment ; 
but  her  heart  was  too  full  to  eat,  though  pressed  to  do  so  with 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


5 

the  utmost  tenderness,  a tenderness  which,  in  truth,  was  the 
means  of  overcoming  her. 

When  insulted  by  malice,  or  oppressed  by  cruelty,  the  heart 
can  assume  a stern  fortitude  foreign  to  its  nature  ; but  this  seem- 
ing apathy  vanishes  at  the  voice  of  kindness,  as  the  rigid  frost 
of  winter  melts  before  the  gentle  influence  of  the  sun,  and  tears, 
gushing  tears  of  gratitude  and  sensibility,  express  its  yielding 
feelings.  Sacred  are  such  tears  ; they  flow  from  the  sweet 
source  of  social  affection  : the  good  alone  can  shed  them. 

Her  nurse’s  sons  soon  returned  from  their  labor ; two  fir.<^ 
nut-brown  youths.  They  had  been  the  companions  of  her 
infant  sports,  and  she  spoke  to  them  with  the  most  engaging 
affability. 

Domestic  bliss  and  rural  felicity  Amanda  had  always  been 
accustomed  to,  till  within  a short  period  ; her  attachment  to 
them  was  still  as  strong  as  ever,  and  had  her  father  been  with 
her,  she  would  have  been  happy. 

It  was  now  about  the  middle  of  June,  and  the  whole  country 
was  glowing  with  luxuriant  beauty.  The  cottage  was  in  reality 
a comfortable,  commodious  farm-house  ; it  was  situated  in 
North  Wales,  and  the  romantic  scenery  surrounding  it  was 
highly  pleasing  to  a disposition  like  Amanda’s,  which  delighted 
equally  in  the  sublime  and  beautiful.  The  front  of  the  cottage 
was  almost  covered  with  woodbine,  intermingled  with  vines  ; 
and  the  lane  already  mentioned  formed  a shady  avenue  up  to  the 
very  door;  one  side  overlooked  a deep  valley,  winding  amongst 
hills  clad  in  the  liveliest  verdure ; a clear  stream  running 
through  it  turned  a mill  in  its  course,  and  afforded  a salutary 
coolness  to  the  herds  which  ruminated  on  its  banks  ; the  other 
side  commanded  a view  of  rich  pastures,  terminated  by  a thick 
grove,  whose  natural  vistas  gave  a view  of  cultivated  farms,  a 
small  irregular  village,  the  spire  of  its  church,  and  a fine  old 
castle,  whose  stately  turrets  rose  above  the  trees  surrounding 
them. 

The  farm-yard,  at  the  back  of  the  cottage,  was  stocked  with 
poultry  and  all  the  implements  of  rural  industry ; the  garden 
was  divided  from  it  by  a rude  paling,  interwoven  with  honey  - 
suckles and  wild  roses ; the  part  appropriated  for  vegetables 
divided  from  the  part  sacred  to  Flora  by  rows  of  fruit-trees  ; a 
craggy  precipice  hung  over  it,  covered  with  purple  and  yellow 
flowers,  thyme,  and  other  odoriferous  herbs,  which  afforded' 
browsage  to  three  or  four  goats  that  skipped  about  in  playful 
gambols  ; a silver  stream  trickled  down  the  precipice,  and 
winding  round  a plantation  of  shrubs,  fell  with  a gentle  murmur 


6 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


into  the  valley.  Beneath  a projecting  fragment  of  the  rock  % 
natural  recess  was  formed,  thickly  lined  with  moss,  and  planted 
round  with  a succession  of  beautiful  flowers. 

“ Here,  scattered  wild,  the  lily  of  the  vale 
Its  balmy  essence  breathes ; here  cowslips  hang 
The  dewy  head,  and  purple  violets  lurk — 

With  all  the  lowly  children  of  the  shade/^ — Thomson. 

Of  those  scenes  Amanda  had  but  an  imperfect  recollection  ; 
such  a faint  idea  as  we  retain  of  a confused  but  agreeable  dream, 
which,  though  we  cannot  explain,  leaves  a pleasing  impression 
behind. 

Peculiar  circumstances  had  driven  her  from  the  shelter  of  a 
parent’s  arms,  to  seek  security  in  retirement  at  this  abode  of 
simplicity  and  peace.  Here  the  perturbation  of  fear  subsided  ; 
but  the  soft  melancholy  of  her  soul  at  times  was  heightened, 
when  she  reflected,  that  in  this  very  place  an  unfortunate 
mother  had  expired  almost  at  the  moment  of  giving  her  birth. 

Amanda  was  now  about  nineteen  ; a description  of  her  face 
and  person  would  not  do  her  justice,  as  it  never  could  convey  a 
full  idea  of  the  ineffable  sweetness  and  sensibility  of  the  former, 
or  the  striking  elegance  and  beautiful  proportion  of  the  latter. 

Sorrow  had  faded  her  vivid  bloom  ; for  the  distresses  of  her 
father  weighed  heavy  on  her  heart,  and  the  blossom  drooped 
with  the  tree  which  supported  it.  Her  agonized  parent  witness- 
ing this  sudden  change,  sent  her  into  Wales,  as  much  for  health 
as  for  security ; she  was  ordered  goaPs  whey  and  gentle  ex- 
ercise ; but  she  firmly  believed  that  consolation  on  her  father’s 
account  could  alone  effect  a cure. 

Though  the  rose  upon  her  cheek  was  pale,  and  the  lustre  of 
her  eyes  was  fled,  she  was  from  those  circumstances  (if  less 
dazzling  to  the  eye)  more  affecting  to  the  heart.  Cold  and  un- 
feeling indeed  must  that  one  have  been,  which  could  see 
her  unmoved  ; for  hers  was  that  interesting  face  and  figure 
which  had  power  to  fix  the  wandering  eye  and  change  the  gaze 
of  admiration  into  the  throb  of  sensibility  : nor  was  her  mind 
inferior  to  the  form  that  enshrined  it. 

She  now  exerted  her  spirits  in  gratitude  to  her  humbly  but 
benevolent  friends.  Her  arrival  had  occasioned  a little  fe'stival 
at  the  cottage  : the  tea  things,  which  were  kept  more  for  show 
than  use  in  the  ebony  cupboard,  were  now  taken  out  and  carried 
by  her  desire  to  the  recess  in  the  garden  ; whither  Mrs.  Edwin 
followed  the  family  with  a hot  cake,  Amanda  thought 
enough  to  serve  half  the  principality. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


7 


The  scene  was  delightful,  and  well  calculated  to  banish  all 
badness  but  despair ; Amanda  was  therefore  cheered  ; for  she 
was  too  much  the  child  of  piety  ever  to  have  felt  its  baneful 
influence.  In  the  midst  of  her  troubles  she  still  looked  up  with 
confidence  to  that  Power  who  has  promised  never  to  forsake 
the  righteous. 

The  harmless  jest,  the  jocund  laugh  went  round,  and 
Amanda  enjoyed  the  innocent  gayety ; for  a benevolent  mind 
will  ever  derive  pleasure  from  the  happiness  of  others.  The 
declining  sun  now  gave  softer  beauties  to  the  extensive  scenery  ; 
the  lowing  of  the  cattle  was  faintly  echoed  by  the  neighboring 
hills ; the  cheerful  carol  of  the  peasant  floated  on  the  evening 
gale,  that  stole  perfumes  from  the  beds  of  flowers  and  wafted 
them  around ; the  busy  bees  had  now  completed  the  delicious 
labor  of  the  day,  and  with  incessant  hummings  sciiglit  their 
various  hives,  while — 

“ Every  copse 

Deep-tangled,  tree  irregular,  and  bush 
Were  prodigal  of  harmony.” — Thomson. 

To  complete  the  concert,  a blind  harper,  who  supported 
himself  by  summer  rambles  through  the  country,  strolled  into 
the  garden  ; and  after  a plentiful  repast  of  bread  and  cheese, 
and  nut-brown  ale,  began  playing. 

The  venerable  appearance  of  the  musician,  the  simple 
melody  of  his  harp,  recalled  to  Amanda’s  recollection  the  tales 
of  other  times,  in  which  she  had  so  often  delighted : it  sent  her 
soul  back  to  the  ages  of  old,  to  the  days  of  other  years,  when 
bards  rehearsed  the  exploits  of  heroes,  and  sung  the  praises  of 
the  dead.  “ While  the  ghosts  of  those  they  sung,  came  in  their 
rustling  winds,  and  were  seen  to  bend  with  joy  towards  the 
sound  of  their  praise.”  To  proceed,  in  the  beautiful  language 
of  Ossian,  “The  sound  was  mournful  and  low,  like  the  song  of 
the  tomb  ; ” such  as  Fingal  heard,  when  the  crowded  sighs  of 
his  bosom  rose  ; and,  “ some  of  my  heroes  are  low,”  said  the 
gray-haired  King  of  Morven : “ I hear  the  sound  of  death  on 
the  harp.  Ossian,  touch  the  trembling  string.  Bid  the  sorrow 
rise,  that  their  spirits  may  fly  with  joy  to  Morven’s  woody  hills. 
He  touched  the  harp  before  the  king  : the  sound  was  mournful 
and  low.  Bend  forwards  from  your  clouds,”  he  said,  “ ghosts 
of  my  fathers,  bend.  Lay  by  the  red  terror  of  your  course. 
Receive  the  falling  chief ; whether  he  comes  from  a distant 
land,  or  rises  from  the  rolling  sea,  let  his  robe  of  mist  be  near; 
his  spear,  that  is  formed  of  a cloud  ; place  an  half-extinguished 


8 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


meteor  by  his  side,  in  the  form  of  the  hero’s  sword.  And,  oh ! 
let  his  countenance  be  lovely,  that  his  friends  may  delight  in 
his  presence.  Bend  from  your  clouds,”  he  said,  “ ghosts  of  my 
fathers,  bend.” 

The  sweet  enthusiasm  which  arose  in  Amanda’s  mind,  from 
her  present  situation,  her  careful  nurse  soon  put  an  end  to,  by 
reminding  her  of  the  heavy  dew  then  falling.  Amanda  could 
have  stayed  for  hours  in  the  garden  ; but  resigning  her  incli- 
nation to  her  nurse’s,  she  immediately  accompanied  her  into 
the  house.  She  soon  felt  inclined  to  retire  to  rest ; and,  after 
a slight  supper  of  strawberries  and  cream  (which  was  all  they 
could  prevail  on  her  to  touch),  she  withdrew  to  her  chamber, 
attended  by  the  nurse  and  her  two  daughters,  who  all  thought 
their  services  requisite  ; and  it  was  not  without  much  difficulty 
Amanda  persuaded  them  to  the  contrary. 

Left  to  solitude,  a tender  awe  stole  upon  the  mind  of 
Amanda,  when  she  reflected  that  in  this  very  room  her  mother 
had  expired.  The  recollection  of  her  sufferings — the  sorrows 
her  father  and  self  had  experienced  since  the  period  of  her 
death — the  distresses  they  still  felt  and  might  yet  go  through — 
all  raised  a sudden  agony  in  her  soul,  and  tears  burst  forth. 
She  went  to  the  bed,  and  knelt  beside  it ; “ Oh  1 my  mother,” 
she  cried,  if  thy  departed  spirit  be  permitted  to  look  down 
upon  this  world,  hear  and  regard  the  supplications  of  thy  child, 
for  thy  protection  amidst  the  snares  which  may  be  spread  for 
her.  Yet,”  continued  she,  after  a pause,  ‘‘  that  Being,  who  has 
taken  thee  to  himself,  will,  if  I continue  innocent,  extend  his 
guardian  care  : to  Him,  therefore,  to  Him  be  raised  the  fervent 
prayer  for  rendering  abortive  every  scheme  of  treachery.” 

She  prayed  with  all  the  fervency  of  devotion  ; her  wander- 
ing thoughts  were  all  restrained,  and  her  passions  gradually 
subsided  into  a calm. 

Warmed  by  a pure  and  ardent  piety,  that  sacred  power 
which  comes  with  healing  on  its  wings  to  the  afflicted  children 
of  humanity,  she  felt  a placid  hope  spring  in  her  heart,  that 
whispered  to  it,  all  w^ouM  yet  be  well. 

She  arose  tranquil  and  animated.  The  inhabitants  of  the 
cottage  had  retired  to  KJpose  ; and  she  heard  no  sound  save 
the  ticking  of  the  clock  from  the  outside  room.  She  went  to 
the  window,  and  raising  the  white  calico  curtain,  looked  down 
the  valley  ; it  was  illumined  by  the  beams  of  the  moon,  which 
tipped  the  trees  with  a shadowy  silver,  and  threw  a line  of 
radiance  on  the  clear  rivulet.  All  was  still,  as  if  creation  slept 
upon  the  bosom  of  serenity.  Here,  while  contemplating  the 


THE  CHILDREiV  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


9 


scene,  a sudden  flutter  at  the  window  startled  her ; and  she 
saw  in  a moment  after  a bird  flit  across,  and  perch  upon  a tre^e 
whose  boughs  shaded  the  casement  ; a soft  serenade  was 
immediately  begun  by  the  sweet  and  plaintive  bird  of  night. 

Amanda  at  length  dropped  the  curtain,  and  sought  repose  \ 
it  soon  blessed  her  eyelids,  and  shed  a sweet  oblivion  over  all 
her  cares. 

“Sleep  on,  sweet  innocent! 

And  when  a soul  is  found  sincerely  so, 

A thousand  liveried  angels  lacquey  it, 

Driving  far  off  all  thought  of  harm  or  sin.’^ — MiLTON. 


CHAPTER  11. 

“ Canst  tlvou  bear  cold  and  hunger  ? Can  these  limbs;, 

Framed  for  the  tender  offices  of  love, 

Endure  the  bitter  gripes  of  smarting  poverty  ? 

When  in  a bed  of  straw  we  shrink  together, 

And  the  bleak  winds  shall  whistle  round  our  heads. 

Wilt  thou  talk  to  me  thus. 

Thus  hush  my  cares,  and  shelter  me  with  love  ? ” — Otway. 

Fitzalan,  the  father  of  Amanda,  was  the  descendant  of  an 
ancient  Irish  family,  which  had,  however,  unfortunately  attained 
the  summit  of  its  prosperity  long  before  his  entrance  into  life  ; 
so  that  little  more  than  a name,  once  dignified  by  illustrious 
actions,  was  left  to  its  posterity.  The  parents  of  Fitzalan  were 
supported  by  an  employment  under  government,  which  enabled 
them  to  save  a small  sum  for  their  son  and  only  child,  who  at 
an  early  period  became  its  sole  master,  by  their  dying  within  a 
short  period  of  each  other.  As  soon  as  he  had  in  some  degree 
recovered  the  shock  of  such  calamities,  he  laid  out  his  little 
pittance  in  the  purchase  of  a commission,  as  a profession  best 
suiting  his  inclinations  and  finances. 

The  war  between  America  and  France  had  then  just  com- 
menced ; and  Fitzalan’s  regiment  was  amongst  the  first  forces 
sent  to  the  aid  of  the  former.  The  scenes  of  war,  though  dread- 
fully affecting  to  a soul  of  exquisite  sensibility,  such  as  he 
possessed,  had  not  power  to  damp  the  ardor  of  his  spirit ; for, 
with  the  name,  he  inherited  the  hardy  resolution  of  his  pro- 
genitors. 

He  had  once  the  good  fortune  to  save  the  life  of  a British 
soldier  ; he  was  one  of  a small  party,  who,  by  the  treachery 
of  their  guides,  were  suddenly  surprised  in  a wood,  through 


to 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


which  they  were  obliged  to  pass  to  join  another  detachment  of 
the  army.  Their  only  way  in  this  alarming  exigence  was  to 
retreat  to  the  fort  from  whence  they  had  but  lately  issued  : 
encompassed  as  they  were  by  the  enemy,  this  was  not  achieved 
without  the  greatest  difficulty.  Just  as  they  had  reached  it, 
Fitzalan  saw  far  behind  them,  a poor  soldier,  who  had  been 
wounded  at  the  first  onset,  just  overtaken  by  two  Indians. 
Yielding  to  the  impulse  of  compassion  in  which  all  idea  of  self 
was  lost,  Fitzalan  hastily  turned  to  his  assistance,  and  flinging 
himself  between  the  pursued  and  the  pursuers,  he  kept  them  a. 
bay  till  the  poor  creature  had  reached  a place  of  safety.  This 
action,  performed  at  the  imminent  hazard  of  his  life,  secured 
him  the  lasting  gratitude  of  the  soldier,  whose  name  was  Edwin  ; 
the  same  that  now  afforded  an  asylum  to  his  daughter. 

Edwin  had  committed  some  juvenile  indiscretions,  which 
highly  incensed  his  parents ; in  despair  at  incurring  their  re- 
sentment, he  enlisted  with  a recruiting  party  in  their  neighbor- 
hood : but,  accustomed  all  his  life  to  peace  and  plenty,  he  did 
not  by  any  means  relish  his  new  situation.  His  gratitude  to 
Fitzalan  was  unbounded ; he  considered  him  as  the  preserver 
of  his  life  ; and,  on  the  man’s  being  dismissed,  who  had  hitherto 
attended  him  as  a servant,  entreated  he  might  be  taken  in  his 
place.  This  entreaty  Fitzalan  complied  with  ; he  was  pleased 
with  Edwin’s  manner  ; and,  having  heard  the  little  history  of 
his  misfortunes,  promised,  on  their  return  to  Europe,  to  inter- 
cede with  his  friends  for  him. 

During  his  stay  abroad,  Fitzalan  was  promoted  to  a captain- 
lieutenancy  ; his  pay  was  his  only  support,  which,  of  necessity, 
checked  the  benevolence  of  a spirit  “ open  as  day  to  melting 
charity.” 

On  the  regiment’s  return  to  Europe,  he  obtained  Edwin’s 
discharge,  who  longed  to  re-enter  upon  his  former  mode  of  life. 
He  accompanied  the  penitent  himself  into  W ales,  where  he  was 
received  with  the  truest  rapture. 

In  grief  for  his  loss,  his  parents  had  forgotten  all  resent- 
ment for  his  errors,  which,  indeed,  had  never  been  very  great : 
they  had  lost  their  two  remaining  children  during  his  absence, 
and  now  received  him  as  the  sole  comfort  and  hope  of  their 
ag^. 

; His  youthful  protector  was  blest  with  the  warmest  gratitude 
tears  filled  his  fine  eyes,  as  he  beheld  the  pleasure  of  his 
parents,  and  the  contrition  of  the  son  j and  he  departed  with 
that  heartfelt  pleasure,  which  ever  attends  and  rewards  an  action 
of  humanity. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


II 


He  now  accompanied  his  regiment  into  Scotland  ; they  were 
quartered  at  a fort  in  a remote  part  of  that  kingdom. 

Near  the  fort  was  a fine  old  abbey,  belonging  to  the  family 
jf  Dunreath  ; the  high  hills  which  nearly  encompassed  it,  were 
almost  all  covered  with  trees,  whose  dark  shades  gave  an  ap- 
pearance of  gloomy  solitude  to  the  building. 

The  present  possessor,  the  Earl  of  Dunreath,  was  now  far 
itdvanced  in  life  ; twice  had  he  married,  in  expectation  of  a 
male  heir  to  his  large  estates,  and  twice  he  had  been  disappoint- 
ed. His  first  lady  had  expired  immediately  after  tlie  birch  of  a 
daughter.  She  had  taken  under  her  protection  a young  female, 
who,  by  unexpected  vicissitudes  in  her  family,  was  left  destitute 
of  support.  On  the  demise  of  her  patroness,  she  retired  from 
the  Abbey  to  the  house  of  a kinswoman  in  its  vicinity  ; the  Earl 
of  Dunreath,  accustomed  to  her  society,  felt  his  solitude  doubly 
augmented  by  her  absence.  He  had  ever  followed  the  dictates 
of  inclination,  and  would  not  disobey  them  now : ere  the  term 
of  mourning  was  expired,  he  offered  her  his  hand,  and  was 
accepted. 

The  fair  orphan,  now  triumphant  mistress  of  the  Abbey, 
found  there  was  no  longer  occasion  to  check  her  natural  pro- 
pensities. Her  soul  was  vain,  unfeeling,  and  ambitious  ; and 
her  sudden  elevation  broke  down  all  the  barriers  which  pru- 
dence had  hitherto  opposed  to  her  passions. 

She  soon  gained  an  absolute  ascendancy  over  her  lord — she 
knew  how  to  assume  the  smile  of  complacency,  and  the  accent 
of  sensibility. 

Forgetful  of  the  kindness  of  her  late  patroness,  she  treated 
the  infant  she  had  left  with  the  most  cruel  neglect ; a neglect 
which  was,  if  pc  '^ible,  increased,  on  the  birth  of  her  own  daughter, 
as  she  could  not  bear  that  Augusta  (instead  of  possessing  the 
whole)  should  only  share  the  affection  and  estates  of  her  father. 
She  contrived  by  degrees  to  alienate  the  former  from  the  inno- 
cenc  Malvina  ; and  she  trusted,  she  should  find  means  to  deprive 
her  of  the  latter. 

Terrified  by  violence,  and  depressed  by  severity,  the  child 
looked  dejected  and  unhappy ; and  this  appearance.  Lady 
Dunreath  made  the  Earl  believe,  proceeded  from  sulkiness  and 
natural  ill-humor.  Her  own  child,  unrestrained  in  any  wish 
of  hei’  heart,  was,  from  her  playful  gayety,  a constant  source 
of  amusement  to  the  Earl  ; her  mother  had  taken  care  to 
instruct  her  in  all  the  little  endearments  which,  when  united 
with  infantine  sweetness,  allure  almost  imperceptibly  the  af- 
fections. 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


Malvina,  ere  she  knew  the  meaning  of  sorrow,  thus  became 
its  prey ; but  in  spite  of  envy  or  ill  treatment,  she  grew  up  with 
all  the  graces  of  mind  and  form  that  had.  distinguished  her 
mother ; her  air  was  at  once  elegant  and  commanding ; her 
face  replete  with  sweetness  ; and  her  fine  eyes  had  a mixture 
of  sensibility  and  languor  in  them,  which  spoke  to  the  feeling 
soul. 

Augusta  was  also  a fine  figure  ; but  unpossessed  of  the 
winning  graces  of  elegance  and  modesty  which  adorned  her 
sister,  her  form  always  appeared  decorated  with  the  most 
studied  art,  and  her  large  eyes  had  a confident  assurance  in 
■them,  that  seemed  to  expect  and  demand  universal  homage. 

The  warriors  of  the  fort  were  welcome  visitants  at  the  Abbey, 
which  Lady  Dunreath  contrived  to  render  a scene  of  almost 
constant  gayety,  by  keeping  up  a continual  intercourse  with  all 
the  adjacent  families,  and  entertaining  all  the  strangers  who 
came  into  its  neighborhood. 

Lord  Dunreath  had  long  been  a prey  to  infirmities,  which 
at  this  period  generally  confined  him  to  his  room ; but  though 
his  body  was  debilitated,  his  mind  retained  all  its  active  powers. 

The  first  appearance  of  the  officers  at  the  Abbey  was  at  a 
ball  given  by  Lady  Dunreath,  in  consequence  of  their  arrival 
near  it ; the  gothic  apartments  were  decorated,  and  lighted  up 
with  a splendor  that  at  once  displayed  taste  and  magnificence  \ 
the  lights,  the  music,  the  brilliancy,  and  unusual  gayety  of  the 
company,  all  gave  to  the  spirits  of  Malvina  an  agreeable  flutter 
they  had  never  before  experienced ; and  a brighter  bloom  than 
usual  stole  over  her  lovely  cheek. 

The  young  co-heiresses  were  extremely  admired  by  the  mili- 
tary heroes.  Malvina,  as  the  eldest,  opened  the  ball  with  the 
colonel;  her  form  had  attracted  the  eyes  of  Fitzalan,  and  vainly 
he  attempted  to  withdraw  them,  till  the  lively  conversation  of 
Augusta,  who  honored  him  with  her  hand,  forced  him  to  restrain 
his  glances,  and  pay  her  the  sprightly  attentions  so  generally 
expected  — when  he  came  to  turn  Malvina,  he  involuntarily 
detained  her  hand  for  a moment : she  blushed,  and  the  timid 
beam  that  stole  from  her  half-averted  eyes,  agitated  his  whole 
soul. 

Partners  were  changed  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  and 
he  seized  the  first  opportunity  that  offered  for  engaging  her ; 
the  softness  of  her  voice,  the  simplicity  yet  elegance  of  her 
language,  now  captivated  his  heart,  as  much  as  her  form  had 
charmed  his  eyes. 

Never  had  he  before  seen  an  object  he  thought  half  so 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


^3 


lovely  or  engaging ; with  her  he  could  not  support  that  lively 
strain  of  conversation  he  had  done  with  her  sister.  Where  the 
heart  is  much  interested,  it  will  not  admit  of  trifling. 

Fitzalan  was  now  in  the  meridian  of  manhood  ; his  stat- 
ure was  above  the  common  size,  and  elegance  and  dignity  were 
conspicuous  in  it ; his  features  were  regularly  handsome,  and 
the  fairness  of  his  forehead  proved  what  his  complexion  had 
been,  till  change  of  climate  and  hardship  had  embrowned  it ; 
the  expression  of  his  countenance  was  somewhat  plaintive  : his 
eyes  had  a sweetness  in  them  that  spoke  a soul  of  the  tenderest 
feelings ; and  the  smile  that  played  around  his  mouth,  would 
have  adorned  a face  of  female  beauty. 

When  the  dance  with  Lady  Malvina  was  over.  Lady  Augusta 
took  care  for  the  remainder  of  the  evening  to  engross  all  his 
attention.  She  thought  him  by  far  the  handsomest  man  in  the 
room,  and  gave  him  no  opportunity  of  avoiding  her ; gallantry 
obliged  him  to  return  her  assiduities,  and  he  was  by  his  brother 
officers  set  down  in  the  list  of  her  adorers.  This  mistake  he 
encouraged  : he  could  bear  raillery  on  an  indifferent  subject ; 
and  joined  in  the  mirth,  which  the  idea  of  his  laying  siege  to 
the  young  heiress  occasioned. 

He  deluded  himself  with  no  false  hopes  relative  to  the  real 
object  of  his  passion  ; he  knew  the  obstacles  between  them  were 
insuperable  ; but  his  heart  was  too  proud  to  complain  of  fate ; 
he  shook  off  all  appearance  of  melancholy,  and  seemed  more 
animated  than  ever. 

His  visits  at  the  Abbey  became  constant ; Lady  Augusta 
took  them  to  herself,  and  encouraged  his  attentions  : as  her 
mother  rendered  her  perfect  mistress  of  her  own  actions,  she 
had  generally  a ’evee  of  redcoats  every  morning  in  her  dressing- 
room.  Lady  Malvina  seldom  appeared  ; she  was  at  those  times 
almost  always  employed  in  reading  to  her  father ; when  that 
was  not  the  case,  her  own  favorite  avocations  often  detained 
her  in  her  room ; or  else  she  wandered  out,  about  the  romantic 
rocks  on  the  sea-shore  ; she  delighted  in  solitary  rambles,  and 
loved  to  visit  the  old  peasants,  who  told  her  tales  of  her 
departed  mother’s  goodness,  drawing  tears  of  sorrow  from  her 
eyes,  at  the  irreparable  loss  she  had  sustained  by  her  death. 

Fitzalan  went  one  morning  as  usual  to  the  Abbey  to  pay  his 
customary  visit ; as  he  went  through  the  gallery  which  led  to 
Lady  Augusta’s  dressing-room,  his  eyes  were  caught  by  two 
beautiful  portraits  of  the  Earl’s  daughters  ; an  artist,  by  his 
express  desire,  had  come  to  the  Abbey  to  draw  them  ; they 
were  but  just  finished,  and  that  morning  placed  in  the  gallery, 


14 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Lady  Augusta  appeared  negligently  reclined  upon  a sofa,  in 
a verdant  alcove  ; the  flowing  drapery  of  the  loose  robe  in 
which  she  was  habited,  set  off  her  fine  figure ; little  Cupids 
were  seen  fanning  aside  her  dark-brown  hair,  and  strewing 
roses  on  her  pillow. 

Lady  Malvina  was  represented  in  the  simple  attire  of  a 
peasant  girl,  leaning’on  a little  grassy  hillock,  whose  foot  was 
washed  by  a clear  stream,  while  her  flocks  browsed  around, 
and  her  dog  rested  beneath  the  shade  of  an  old  tree,  that 
waved  its  branches  over  her  head,  and  seemed  sheltering  her 
from  the  beams  of  a meridian  sun. 

“ Beautiful  portrait ! cried  Fitzalan,  sweet  resemblance 
of  a seraphic  form  ! ’’ 

h ard  a so^t  sigh  behind  him  ; he  started,  turned,  and 
perceived  Lady  Malvina ; in  the  utmost  confusion  he  faltered 
out  his  admiration  of  the  pictures  ; and  not  knowing  what  he 
did,  fixed  his  eyes  on  Lady  Augusta’s,  exclaiming,  “ How 
beautiful  ! ” “ ’Tis  very  handsome  indeed,’’  said  Malvina, 

with  a more  pensive  voice  than  usual,  and  led  the  way  to  her 
sister’s  drawing-room. 

Lady  Augusta  was  spangling  some  ribbon  ; but  at  Fitzalan’s 
entrance  she  threw  it  aside,  and  asked  him  if  he  had  been 
admiring  her  picture  ? — Yes,”  he  said,  ‘‘  ’twas  that  alone  had 
prevented  his  before  paying  his  homage  to  the  original.”  He 
proceeded  in  a strain  of  compliments,  which  had  more  gal- 
lantry than  sincerity  in  them.  In  the  course  of  their  trifling 
he  snatched  a knot  of  the  spangled  ribbon,  and  pinning  it 
next  his  heart,  declared  it  should  remain  there  as  a talisman 
against  all  future  impressions. 

He  sto.e  a glance  at  Lady  Malvina ; she  held  a book  in 
her  hand ; but  her  eyes  were  turned  towards  him,  and  a deadly 
paleness  overspread  her  countenance. 

Fitzalan’s  spirits  vanished  ; he  started  up,  and  declared  he 
must  be  gone  immediately.  The  dejection  of  Lady  Malvina 
dwelt  upon  his  heart ; it  flattered  his  fondness,  but  pained  its 
sensibility.  He  left  the  fort  in  the  evening,  immediately  after 
he  had  retired  from  the  mess ; he  strolled  to  the  sea-side,  and 
rambled  a considerable  way  among  the  rocks.  The  scene  was 
wild  and  solemn ; the  shadows  of  evening  were  beginning  to 
descend ; the  waves  stole  with  low  murmurs  upon  the  shore, 
and  a soft  breeze  gently  agitated  the  marine  plants  that  grew 
amongst  the  crevices  of  the  rocks ; already  were  the  sea-fowl, 
with  harsh  and  melancholy  cries,  flocking  to  their  nests,  some 
lightly  skimming  over  the  water,  while  others  were  seen,  like 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


dark  clouds  arising  from  the  long  heath  on  the  neighboring 
hills.  Fitzalan  pursued  his  way  in  deep  and  melancholy 
meditation,  from  which  a plaintive  Scotch  air,  sung  by  the 
melting  voice  of  harmony  itself,  roused  him.  He  looked  towards 
the  spot  from  whence  the  sound  proceeded,  and  beheld  Lady 
Malvina  standing  on  a low  rock,  a projection  of  it  affording 
her  support.  Nothing  could  be  more  picturesque  than  her 
appearance  : she  looked  like  one  of  the  beautiful  forms  which 
Ossian  so  often  describes:  her  white  dress  fluttered  in  the 
wind,  and  her  dark  hair  hung  dishevelled  around  her.  Fitzalan 
moved  softly,  and  stopped  behind  her ; she  wept  as  she  sung, 
and  wiped  away  her  tears  as  she  ceased  singing ; she  sighed 
heavily.  Ah  I my  mother,’’  she  exclaimed,  “ why  was  Malvina 
left  behind  you?” — “To  bless  and  improve  mankind,”  cried 
Fitzalan.  She  screamed,  and  would  have  fallen,  had  he  not 
caught  her  in  his  arms ; he  prevailed  on  her  to  sit  down  upon 
the  rock,  and  allow  him  to  support  her  till  her  agitation  had 
subsided.  “ And  why,”  cried  he,  “ should  Lady  Malvina  give 
way  to  melancholy,  blest  as  she  is  with  all  that  can  render  life 
desirable  ? Why  ^eek  its  indulgence,  by  rambling  about  those 
dreary  rocks  ^ fit  haunts  alone,  he  might  have  added,  for 
vvret  hedn  ss  and  me  ? Can  I help  wondering  at  your  dejec- 
tion (he  continued),  when  to  all  appearance  (at  least)  I see  you 
possessed  of  -verything  requisite  to  constitute  felicity  ? ” 

Appearances  ar  often  deceitful,”  said  Malvina,  forgetting 
In  tUat  moment  the  ca-  tion  she  had  hitherto  inviolably  observed, 
of  never  hinting  at  the  ill  treatment  she  received  from  the 
Countess  of  Dunreath  and  her  daughter.  “ Appearances  are 
often  deceitful,  ’ she  said,  “ as  I,  alas  I too  fatally  experience. 
The  glare,  the  ostent  tion  of  wealth,  a soul  of  sensibility  would 
willingly  resign  for  privacy  and  plainness  if  they  were  to  be 
attended  with  real  fri  n ' hip  and  sympathy.” 

“ And  how  ew  ” cried  Fitzalan,  turning  his  expressive  eyes 
upon  her  face,  ‘ can  know  La'^y  Malvina  without  feeling  friend- 
ship for  her  virtues,  a d sympathy  for  her  sorrows  ! ” As  he 
spoke,  he  pressed  her  han ' ag.  ’n.  his  heart,  and  she  felt  the 
knot  of  ribbon  he  had  i atcl  ed  from  her  sister  : she  instantly 
withdiew  her  hand,  and  dar  ing  a haughty  glance  at  him, 
“ Captain  Fitzalan,”  said  she^  “ you  were  going,  I believe,  to 
Lady  Augusta ; let  me  not  detain  you.” 

Fitzalan’s  passions  were  no  longer  under  the  dominion  of 
reason  ; he  tore  the  ribbon  from  his  breast  and  flung  it  into  the 
sea.  “ Going  to  Lady  Augusta  ! ” he  exclaimed,  “ and  is  her 
lovely  sister  then  really  deceived  ? Ah  ! Lady  Malvina,  I now 


l6  THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

gaze  on  the  dear  attraction  that  drew  me  to  the  Abbey.  The 
feelings  of  a real,  a hopeless  passion  could  ill  support  raillery 
or  observation  : I hid  my  passion  within  the  recesses  of  my  heart, 
and  gladly  allowed  my  visits  to  be  placed  to  the  account  of  an 
object  truly  indifferent,  that  I might  have  opportunities  of 
seeing  an  object  I adored/’  Malvina  blushed  and  trembled : 
‘‘  Fitzalan,”  cried  she  after  a pause,  “ I detest  deceit.” 

I abhor  it  too.  Lady  Malvina,”  said  he ; but  why  should 
I now  endeavor  to  prove  my  sincerity,  when  I know  it  is  so 
immaterial  ? Excuse  me  for  what  I have  already  uttered,  and 
believe  that  though  susceptible,  I am  not  aspiring.”  He  then 
presented  his  hand  to  Malvina;  she  descended  from  her  seat, 
and  they  walked  towards  the  Abbey.  Lady  Malvina’s  pace 
was  slow,  and  her  blushes,  had  Fitzalan  looked  at  her,  would 
have  expressed  more  pleasure  than  resentment : she  seemed  to 
expect  a still  further  declaration  ; but  Fitzalan  was  too  con- 
fused to  speak  ; nor  indeed  was  it  his  intention  again  to  indulge 
himself  on  the  dangerous  subject.  They  proceeded  in  silence  ; 
at  the  Abbey  gate  they  stopped,  and  he  wished  her  good-night. 
‘‘  Shall  we  not  soon  see  you  at  the  Abbey  ? ” exclaimed  Lady 
Malvina  in  a flurried  voice,  which  seemed  to  say  she  thought 
his  adieu  rather  a hasty  one.  No,  my  lovely  friend,”  cried 
Fitzalan,  pausing,  while  he  looked  upon  her  with  the  most 
impassioned  tenderness,  — r “ in  future  I shall  confine  myself 
chiefly  to  the  fort.”  “ Do  you  dread  an  invasion  ? ” asked  she, 
smiling,  while  a stolen  glance  of  her  eyes  gave  peculiar  mean- 
ing to  her  words.  ‘‘  I long  dreaded  that,”  cried  he  in  the  sam»^ 
strain,  “ and  my  fears  were  well  founded  but  I must  now 
muster  all  my  powers  to  dislodge  the  enemy.”  He  kissed  her 
hand,  and  precipitately  retired. 

Lady  Malvina  repaired  to  her  chamber,  in  such  a tumult  of 
pleasure  as  she  had  never  before  experienced.  She  admired 
Fitzalan  from  the  first  evening  she  beheld  him  ; though  his 
attentions  were  directed  to  her  sister,  the  language  of  his  eyes, 
to  her,  contradicted  any  attachment  these  attentions  might  have 
intimated  ; his  gentleness  and  sensibility  seemed  congenial  to  he* 
own.  Hitherto  she  had  been  the  slave  of  tyranny  and  caprice  ^ 
and  now,  for  the  first  time,  experienced  that  soothing  tender- 
ness her  wounded  feelings  had  so  long  sighed  for.  She  was 
agitated  and  delighted ; she  overlooked  every  obstacle  to  her 
wishes  ; and  waited  impatiently  a further  explanation  of  Fitz- 
alan’s  sentiments. 

Far  different  were  his  feelings  from  hers  : to  know  he  was 
beloved,  could  scarcely  yield  him  pleasure,  when  he  reflected 


' (E  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


^7 

on  his  situation,  which  forbad  his  availing  himself  of. 

any  adv?int?gc  that  knowledge  might  have  afforded.  Of  a 
union  inaeed  fie  did  not  dare  to  think,  since  its  consequences, 
he  knew,  must  be  destruction  ; for  rigid  and  austere  as  the 
Earl  was  represented,  he  could  not  flatter  himself  he  would 
ever  pardon  such  a step  ; and  the  means  of  supporting  Lady 
Malvina,  in  any  degree  of  comfort,  he  did  not  possess  himself. 
He  determined,  as  much  as  possible,  to  avoid  her  presence, 
and  regretted  continually  having  yielded  to  the  impulse  of  his 
heart  and  revealed  his  love,  since  he  believed  it  had  augmented 
hers. 

By  degrees  he  discontinued  his  visits  at  the  Abbey ; but  he 
often  met  Lady  Malvina  at  parties  in  the  neighborhood : caution, 
however,  always  sealed  his  lips,  and  every  appearance  of  par- 
ticularity was  avoided.  The  time  now  approached  for  the 
departure  of  the  regiment  from  Scotland,  and  Lady  Malvina, 
instead  of  the  explanation  she  so  fondly  expected,  so  ardently 
desired,  saw  Fitzalan  studious  to  avoid  her. 

The  disappointment  this  conduct  gave  rise  to,  was  too  much 
for  the  tender  and  romantic  heart  of  Malvina  to  bear  without 
secretly  repining.  Society  grew  irksome ; she  became  more 
than  ever  attached  to  solitary  rambles,  which  gave  opportuni- 
ties of  indulging  her  sorrows  without  restraint : sorrows,  pride 
often  reproached  her  for  experiencing. 

It  was  within  a week  of  the  change  of  garrison,  when  Mal- 
vina repaired  one  evening  to  the  rock  where  Fitzalan  had  dis- 
closed his  tenderness  ; a similarity  of  feeling  had  led  him 
thither ; he  saw  his  danger,  but  he  had  no  power  to  retreat ; 
he  sat  down  by  Malvina,  and  they  conversed  for  some  time 
on  indifferent  subjects;  at  last,  after  a pause  of  a minute, 
Malvina  .exclaimed,  ‘‘You  go  then,  Fitzalan,  never,  never,  I 
suppose,  to  return  here  again  ! ’’  “ ’Tis  probable  I may  not 

indeed,”  said  he.  “ Then  we  shall  never  meet  again,”  cried 
she,  while  a trickling  tear  stole  down  her  lovely  cheek,  which, 
tinged  as  it  was  with  the  flush  of  agitation,  looked  now  like 
a half-blown  rose  moistened  with  the  dews  of  early  morning. 

“Yes,  my  lovely  friend,”  said  he,  “we  shall  meet  again — 
we  shall  meet  in  a better  place  ; in  that  heaven,”  continued  he, 
sighing,  and  laying  his  cold,  trembling  hand  upon  hers,  “ which 
will  recompense  all  our  sufferings.”  “ You  are  melancholy 
to-night,  Fitzalan,”  cried  Lady  Malvina,  in  a voice  scarcely 
articulate. 

“ Oh  ! can  you  wonder  at  \t  ? ” exclaimed  he,  overcome  by 
her  emotion,  and  forgetting  in  a moment  all  his  resolutions  — 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBE  Y, 


i8 

‘‘  Oh  ! can  y©u  wonder  at  my  melancholy,  when  I know  not  but 
that  this  is  the  last  time  I shall  see  the  only  woman  I ever 
loved — when  I know,  that  in  bidding  her  adieu  I resign  all  the 
pleasure,  the  happiness  of  my  life/’ 

Malvina  could  no  longer  restrain  her  feelings  ; she  sunk 
upoii  his  shoulder  and  wept.  ‘‘  Good  heavens  ! ” cried  Fitzalan, 
ahmost  trembling  beneath  the  lovely  burden  he  supported — 
What  a cruel  situation  is  mine  ! But,  Malvina,  I will  not,  cannot 
plunge  you  in  destruction.  Led  by  necessity,  as  well  as  choice, 
to  embrace  the  profession  of  a soldier,  I have  no  income  but 
what  is  derived  from  that  profession  ; though  my  own  distresses 
I could  bear  with  fortitude,  yours  would  totally  unman  me  ; nor 
would  my  honor  be  less  injured  than  my  peace,  were  you  in- 
volved in  difficulties  on  my  account.  Our  separation  is  there- 
fore, alas  ! inevitable.” 

“ Oh  ! no,”  exclaimed  Malvina,  ‘‘ the  difficulties  you  have 
mentioned  will  vanish.  My  father’s  affections  were  early  alien- 
ated from  me  ; and  my  fate  is  of  little  consequence  to  him — 
nay,  I have  reason  to  believe  he  will  be  glad  of  an  excuse  for 
leaving  his  large  possessions  to  Augusta ; and  oh ! how  little 
shall  I envy  her  those  possessions,  if  the  happy  destiny  I now 
look  forward  to  is  mine.”  As  she  spoke,  her  mild  eyes  rested  on 
the  face  of  Fitzalan,  who  clasped  her  to  his  bosom  in  a sudden 
transport  of  tenderness.  ‘‘  But  though  my  father  is  partial  to 
Augusta,”  she  continued,  “ I am  sure  he  will  not  be  unnatural 
to  me  ; and  though  he  may  withhold  affluence,  he  will,  I am 
confident,  allow  me  a competence  ; nay,  Lady  Dunreath,  I be- 
lieve, in  pleasure  at  my  removal  from  the  Abbey,  would,  if  he 
hesitated  in  that  respect,  become  my  intercessor.” 

The  energy  with  which  Malvina  spoke  convinced  Fitzalan 
of  the  strength  of  her  affection.  An  ecstasy  never  before  felt 
pervaded  his  soul  at  the  idea  of  being  so  beloved ; vainly  did 
prudence  whisper,  that  Malvina  might  be  deluding  herself  with 
false  hopes,  the  suggestions  of  love  triumphed  over  every  con- 
sideration ; and  again  folding  the  fair  being  he  held  in  his  arms 
to  his  heart,  he  softly  asked,  would  she,  at  all  events,  unite  her 
destiny  with  his. 

Lady  Malvina,  who  firmly  believed  what  she  had  said  to  him 
would  really  happen,  and  who  deemed  a separation  from  him 
the  greatest  misfortune  which  could  possibly  befall  her,  blushed, 
and  faltering  yielded  a willing  consent. 

The  means  of  accomplishing  their  wishes  now  occupied 
their  thoughts.  Fitzalan’s  imagination  was  too  fertile  not  soort 
to  suggest  a scheme  which  had  a probability  of  success ; he 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


^9 


resolved  to  intrust  the  chaplain  of  the  regiment  with  the  affair, 
and  request  his  attendance  the  ensuing  night  in  the  chapel  of 
the  Abbey,  where  Lady  Malvina  promised  to  meet  them  with 
her  maid,  on  whose  secrecy  she  thought  she  could  rely. 

It  was  settled  that  Fitzalan  should  pay  a visit  the  next 
morning  at  the  Abbey,  and  give  Malvina  a certain  sign,  if  he 
succeeded  with  the  chaplain. 

The  increasing  darkness  at  length  reminded  them  of  the 
lateness  of  the  hour.  Fitzalan  conducted  Malvina  to  the  Ab- 
bey gate,  where  they  separated,  each  involved  in  a tumult  of 
hopes,  fears,  and  wishes. 

The  next  morning  Lady  Malvina  brought  her  work  into  her 
sister's  dressing-room  ; at  last  Fitzalan  entered  ; he  was  at- 
tacked by  Augusta  for  his  long  absence,  which  he  excused  by 
pleading  regimental  business.  After  trifling  some  time  with 
her,  he  prevailed  on  her  to  sit  down  to  the  harpsichord ; and 
then  glancing  to  Malvina,  he  gave  her  the  promised  signal. 

Her  conscious  eyes  were  instantly  bent  to  the  ground  ; a 
crimson  glow  was  suddenly  succeeded  by  a deadly  paleness ; 
her  head  sunk  upon  her  bosom  ; and  her  agitation  must  have 
excited  suspicions  had  it  been  perceived  ; but  Fitzalan  pur- 
posely bent  over  her  sister,  and  thus  gave  her  an  opportunity 
of  retiring  unnoticed  from  the  room.  As  soon  as  she  had  re- 
gained a little  composure,  she  called  her  maid,  and,  after  re- 
ceiving many  promises  of  secrecy,  unfolded  to  her  the  whole 
affair.  It  was  long  past  the  midnight  hour  ere  Malvina  would 
attempt  repairing  to  the  chapel ; when  she  at  last  rose  for  that 
purpose  she  trembled  universally  ; a kind  of  horror  chilled  her 
heart ; she  began  to  fear  she  was  about  doing  wrong,  and  hesi- 
tated ; but  when  she  reflected  on  the  noble  generosity  of 
Fitzalan,  and  that  she  herself  had  precipitated  him  into  the 
measure  they  were  about  taking,  her  hesitation  was  over  ; and 
leaning  on  her  maid,  she  stole  through  the  winding  galleries,  and 
lightly  descending  the  stairs,  entered  the  long  hall,  which  termi- 
nated in  a dark  arched  passage,  that  opened  into  the  chapel. 

This  was  a wild  and  gloomy  structure,  retaining  everywhere 
vestiges  of  that  monkish  superstition  which  had  erected  it ; be- 
neath were  the  vaults  which  contained  the  ancestors  of  the  Earl 
of  Dunreath,  whose  deeds  and  titles  were  enumerated  on  gothic 
monuments  ; their  dust-covered  banners  waving  around  in  sullen 
dignity  to  the  rude  gale,  which  found  admittance  through  the 
broken  windows. 

The  light,  which  the  maid  held,  produced  deep  shadows 
that  heightened  the  solemnity  of  the  place. 


20 


THE  CHILD  RE  H OF  THE  ABBEY. 


They  are  not  hete/’  said  Malvina,  casting  her  fearful  eyes 
around.  She  went  to  the  door,  which  opened  into  a thick 
wood  \ but  here  she  only  heard  the  breeze  rustling  amongst  the 
trees ; she  turned  from  it,  and  sinking  upon  the  steps  of  the 
altar,  gave  way  to  an  agony  of  tears  and  lamentations.  A low 
murmur  reached  her  ear  ; she  started  up  ; the  chapel  door  was 
gently  pushed  open,  and  Fitzalan  entered  with  the  chaplain  ; 
they  had  been  watching  in  the  wood  for  the  appearance  of 
light.  Malvina  was  supported  to  the  altar,  and  a few  minutes^ 
made  her  the  wife  of  Fitzalan. 

She  had  not  the  courage,  till  within  a day  or  two  previouis 
to  the  regiment’s  departure  from  Scotland,  to  acquaint  the  Earl 
with  her  marriage  ; the  Countess  already  knew  it,  through  the 
means  of  Malvina’s  woman,  who  was  a creature  of  her  own. 
Lady  Dunreath  exulted  at  the  prospect  of  Malvina’s  ruin ; it 
at  once  gratified  the  malevolence  of  her  soul,  and  the  avari- 
cious desire  she  had  of  increasing  her  own  daughter’s  fortune  ; 
she  had,  besides,  another  reason  to  rejoice  at  it ; this  was,  the 
attachment  Lady  Augusta  had  formed  for  Fitzalan,  which,  her 
mother  feared,  would  have  precipitated  her  into  a step  as  im- 
prudent as  her  sister’s,  had  she  not  been  beforehand  with  her. 

This  fear  the  impetuous  passions  of  Lady  Augusta  natu- 
rally excited.  She  really  loved  Fitzalan  ; a degree  of  frantic 
rage  possessed  her  at  his  marriage ; she  cursed  her  sister  in 
the  bitterness  of  her  heart,  and  joined  with  Lady  Dunreath  in 
working  up  the  Earl’s  naturally  austere  and  violent  passions 
into  such  a paroxysm  of  fury  and  resentment,  that  he  at  last 
solemnly  refused  forgiveness  to  Malvina,  and  bid  her  never 
more  appear  in  his  presence. 

She  now  began  to  tread  the  thorny  path  of  life  ; and  though 
her  guide  was  tender  and  affectionate,  nothing  could  allay  her 
anguish  for  having  involved  him  in  difficulties,  which  his  noble 
spirit  could  ill  brook  or  struggle  against.  The  first  year  of 
their  union  she  had  a son,  who  was  called  after  her  father,  Oscar 
Dunreath ; the  four  years  that  succeeded  his  birth  were  passed 
in  wretchedness  that  baffies  description.  At  the  expiration  ot 
this  period  their  debts  were  so  increased,  Fitzalan  was  com- 
pelled to  sell  out  on  half-pay.  Lady  Malvina  now  expected  an 
addition  to  her  family ; her  situation,  she  hoped,  would  move 
her  father’s  heart,  and  resolved  to  essay  everything,  which  ab 
forded  the  smallest  prospect  of  obtaining  comfort  for  her  hus’ 
band  and  his  babes  ; she  prevailed  on  him,  therefore,  to  carry 
her  to  Scotland. 

They  lodged  at  a peasant’s  in  the  neighborhood  of  th< 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


Abbey  ; he  informed  them  the  EarFs  infirmities  were  daily  in- 
creasing; and  that  Lady  Dunreath  had  just  celebrated  her 
daughter's  marriage  with  the  Marquis  of  Roseline.  This  no- 
bleman had  passionately  admired  Lady  Malvina ; an  admira- 
tion the  Countess  always  wished  transferred  to  her  daughter. 
On  the  marriage  of  Malvina  he  went  abroad ; his  passion  was 
conquered  ere  he  returned  to  Scotland,  and  he  disdained  not 
the  overtures  made  for  his  alliance  from  the  Abbey.  His 
favorite  propensities,  avarice  and  pride,  were  indeed  gratified 
by  the  possession  of  the  Earl  of  Dunreath’s  sole  heiress. 

The  day  after  her  arrival  Lady  Malvina  sent  little  Oscar^ 
with  the  old  peasant,  to  the  Abbey ; Oscar  was  a perfect  cher- 
ubim— 

“ The  bloom  of  opening  flowers,  unsullied  beauty. 

Softness  and  sweetest  innocence  he  wore, 

And  looked  like  nature  in  the  world’s  first  spring,” 

Lady  Malvina  gave  him  a letter  for  the  Earl,  in  which,  after 
pathetically  describing  her  situation,  she  besought  him  to  let 
the  uplifted  hands  of  innocence  plead  her  cause.  The  peasant 
watched  till  the  hour  came  for  Lady  Dunreath  to  go  out  in  her 
carriage,  as  was  her  daily  custom  : he  then  desired  to  be  con- 
ducted to  the  Earl,  and  was  accordingly  ushered  into  his  pres- 
ence : he  found  him  alone,  and  briefly  informed  him  of  his 
errand.  The  Earl  frowned  and  looked  agitated  ; but  did  not 
by  any  means  express  that  displeasure  which  the  peasant  had 
expected  ; feeling  for  himself,  indeed,  had  lately  softened  his 
Iieart ; he  was  unhappy  ; his  wife  and  daughter  had  attained 
the  completion  of  their  wishes,  and  no  longer  paid  him  the  at- 
tenticn  his  age  required.  He  refused,  however,  to  accept  the 
letter : little  Oscar,  who  had  been  gazing  on  him  from  the 
moment  he  entered  the  apartment,  now  ran  forward ; gently 
stroking  his  hand,  he  smiled  in  his  face,  and  exclaimed,  ‘‘  Ah ! 
do  pray  take  poor  mamma’s  letter.”  The  Earl  involuntarily 
took  it ; as  he  read,  the  muscles  of  his  face  began  to  work, 
and  a tear  drop»ped  from  him.  ‘‘  Poor  mamma  cries  too,”  said 
Oscar,  upon  whose  hand  the  tear  fell.  ‘‘  Why  did  your  mamma 
send  you  to  me  ? ” said  the  Earl.  “ Because  she  said,”  cried 
Oscar,  ‘‘  that  you  were  my  grandpapa — and  she  bids  me  love 
you,  and  teaches  me  every  day  to  pray  for  you.”  ‘‘  Heaven 
bless  you,  my  lovely  prattler  ! ” exclaimed  the  Earl,  with  sud- 
den emotion,  patting  his  head  as  he  spoke.  At  this  moment 
Lady  Dunreath  rushed  into  the  apartment : one  of  her  favorites 
bad  followed  her^  to  relate  the  scene  that  was  going  forward 


22 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  A EE  Eh. 


within  it : and  she  had  returned,  with  all  possible  expedl'x  jn, 
to  counteract  any  dangerous  impression  that  might  be  made 
upon  the  Earbs  mind.  Rage  inflamed  her  countenance  : the 
Earl  knew  the  violence  of  her  temper ; he  was  unequal  to  con- 
tention, and  hastily  motioned  for  ihe  peasant  to  retire  with  the 
child.  The  account  of  his  reception  excited  the  most  flatter- 
ing hopes  in  the  bosom  of  his  mother : she  counted  the  tedious 
hours,  in  expectation  of  a kind  summons  to  the  Abbey ; but  no 
such  summons  came.  The  next  morning  the  child  was  sent  to 
it ; but  the  porter  refused  him  admittance,  by  the  express  com- 
mand of  the  Earl,  he  said.  Frightened  at  his  rudeness,  the 
child  returned  weeping  to  his  mother,  whose  blasted  expectations 
wrung  her  heart  with  agony,  and  tears  and  lamentations  broke 
from  her.  The  evening  was  far  advanced,  when  suddenly  her 
features  brightened  : “ I will  go,’’  cried  she,  starting  up — I 
will  again  try  to  melt  his  obduracy.  Oh!  with  what  lowliness 
should  a child  bend  before  an  offended  parent ! Oh  I with 
what  fortitude,  what  patience,  should  a wife,  a mother,  try  to 
overcome  difficulties  which  she  is  conscious  of  having  precipi- 
tated the  objects  of  her  tenderest  affections  into ! ” 

The  night  was  dark  and  tempestuous ; she  would  not  suffer 
Fitzalan  to  attend  her  ; but  proceeded  to  the  Abbey,  leaning  on 
the  peasant’s  arm.  She  would  not  be  repulsed  at  the  door,  but 
forced  her  way  into  the  hall : here  Lady  Dunreath  met  her, 
and  with  mingled  pride  and  cruelty,  refused  her  access  to  het 
father,  declaring  it  was  by  his  desire  she  did  so.  “ Let  me  see 
him  but  for  a moment,’*  said  the  lovely  suppliant,  clasping  her 
white  and  emaciated  hands  together — by  all  that  is  tender  in 
humanity,  I beseech  you  to  grant  my  request.” 

“Turn  this  frantic  woman  from  the  Abbey,”  said  the  im- 
placable Lady  Dunreath,  trembling  with  passion — “ at  3^our 
peril  suffer  her  to  continue  here.  The  peace  of  your  lord  is  too 
precious  to  be  disturbed  by  her  exclamations.” 

The  imperious  order  was  instantly  obeyed,  though,  as  Cor- 
delia says,  “ it  was  a night  when  one  would  not  have  turned  an 
enemy’s  dog  from  the  door.”  The  rain  poured  in  torrents  ; 
the  sea  roared  with  awful  violence  ; and  the  wind  roared  through 
the  wood,  as  if  it  would  tear  up  the  trees  by  their  roots.  The 
peasant  charitably  flung  his  plaid  over  Malvina  : she  moved 
mechanically  along  ; her  senses  appeared  quite  stupefied.  Fitz- 
alan watched  for  her  at  the  door  : she  rushed  into  his  extended 
arms,  and  fainted  ; it  was  long  ere  she  showed  any  symptoms 
of  returning  life.  Fitzalan  wept  over  her  in  the  anguish  and 
distraction  of  his  soul ; and  scarcely  could  he  forbear  execra- 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


ting  the  being  who  had  so  grievously  afflicted  her  gentle  spirit: 
by  degrees  she  revived  ; and,  as  she  pressed  him  feebly  to  her 
breast,  exclaimed,  “ The  final  stroke  is  given  — I have  been 
turned  from  my  father’s  door.” 

The  cottage  in  which  they  lodged  afforded  but  few  of  the 
necessaries,  and  none  of  the  comforts  of  life  ; such,  at  least,  as 
they  had  been  accustomed  to.  In  Malvina’s  present  situation, 
Fitzalan  dreaded  the  loss  of  her  life,  should  they  continue  in 
their  present  abode  ; but  whither  could  he  take  her  wacderer, 
as  he  was  upon  the  face  of  the  earth  ? At  length  the  i^aithful 
Edwin  occurred  to  his  recollection  : h^’«  house,  he  m.6  confi- 
dent, would  afford  them  a comfortable  asylum,  whe.e  Lady 
Malvina  would  experience  all  that  tenderness  and  ivare  her 
situation  demanded. 

He  immediately  set  about  procuring  a conveyance^  and  the 
following  morning  Malvina  bid  a last  adieu  to  Scotland. 

Lady  Dunreath,  in  the  mean  time,  suffered  tortu  :o : after 
she  had  seen  Malvina  turned  from  the  Abbey,  she  returned  to 
her  apartment:  it  was  furnished  with  the  most  luxuiious  ele- 
gance, yet  could  she  not  rest  within  it.  Conscience  already 
told  her,  if  Malvina  died,  she  must  consider  herself  her  mur- 
derer ; her  pale  and  woe-worn  image  seemed  still  before  her ; 
a cold  terror  oppressed  her  heart,  which  the  horrors  of  the  night 
augmented ; the  tempest  shook  the  battlements  of  the  Abbey  ; 
and  the  winds,  which  howled  through  the  galleries,  seemed  like 
the  last  moans  of  some  wandering  spirit  of  the  pile,  bewailing 
the  fate  of  one  of  its  fairest  daughters.  To  cruelty  and  ingrat- 
itude Lady  Dunreath  had  added  deceit : her  lord  was  yielding 
to  the  solicitations  of  his  child,  when  she  counteracted  his  in- 
tentions by  a tale  of  falsehood.  The  visions  of  the  night  were 
also  dreadful ; Malvina  appeared  expiring  before  her,  and  the 
late  Lady  Dunreath,  by  her  bedside,  reproaching  her  barbarity. 
“ Oh  cruel ! ” the  ghastly  figure  seemed  to  say,  “ is  it  ycu,  whom 
I fostered  in  my  bosom,  that  have  done  this  deed  —driven 
forth  my  child,  a forlorn  and  wretched  wanderer  ? ” 

Oh,  conscience,  how  awful  are  thy  terrors  ! thou  art  the 
vicegerent  of  Heaven,  and  dost  anticipate  its  vengeance,  ere 
the  final  hour  of  retribution  arrives.  Guilt  may  be  triumphant, 
but  never,  never  can  be  happy  : it  finds  no  shield  against  thy 
stings  and  arrows.  The  heart  thou  smitest  bleeds  in  every 
pore,  and  sighs  amidst  gayety  and  splendor. 

The  unfortunate  travellers  were  welcomed  with  the  truest 
hospitality  by  the  grateful  Edwin ; he  had  married,  soon  after 
his  return  from  America,  a young  girl,  to  whom,  from  his  ear* 


24 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  AktlEY. 


liest  youth,  he  was  attached.  His  parents  died  soon  after  his 
union,  and  the  whole  of  their  little  patrimony  devolved  to  him. 
Soothed  and  attended  with  the  utmost  tenderness  and  respect, 
Fitzalan  hoped  Lady  Malvina  would  here  regain  her  health  and 
peace  : he  intended,  after  her  recovery,  to  endeavor  to  be  put 
on  full  pay  ; and  trusted  he  should  prevail  on  her  to  continue 
at  the  farm. 

At  length  the  hour  came,  in  which  she  gave  a daughter  lo 
his  arms.  From  the  beginning  of  her  illness  the  people  about 
her  were  alarmed ; too  soon  was  it  proved  their  alarms  were 
well  founded  : she  lived  after  the  birth  of  her  infant  but  a few 
minutes,  and  died  embracing  her  husband,  and  blessing  his 
children. 

Fitzalan’s  feelings  cannot  well  be  described  : they  were  at 
first  too  much  for  reason,  and  he  continued  some  time  in  per- 
fect stupefaction.  When  he  regained  his  sensibility,  his  grief 
was  not  outrageous  ; it  was  that  deep,  still  sorrow,  which  fas- 
tens on  the  heart,  and  cannot  vent  itself  in  tears  or  lamenta- 
tions : he  sat  with  calmness  by  the  bed,  where  the  beautiful 
remains  of  Malvina  lay ; he  gazed  without  shrinking  on  her 
pale  face,  which  death,  as  if  in  pity  to  his  feelings,  had  not  dis- 
figured j he  kissed  her  cold  lips,  continually  exclaiming,  Oh  ! 
had  we  never  met,  she  might  still  have  been  living.”  His  lan- 
guage was  something  like  that  of  a poet  of  her  own  country : — 

“ Wee,  modest  crimson-tipped  flower, 

I met  thee  in  a luckless  hour.” 

It  was  when  he  saw  them  about  removing  her  that  all  the 
tempest  of  his  grief  broke  forth.  Oh  ! how  impossible  to  de- 
scribe the  anguish  of  the  poor  widower’s  heart,  when  he  re^ 
turned  from  seeing  his  Malvina  laid  in  her  last  receptacle  : he 
shut  himself  up  in  the  room  where  she  had  expired,  and  order- 
ed no  one  to  approach  him  ; he  threw  himself  upon  the  bed  ; 
he  laid  his  cheek  upon  her  pillow,  he  grasped  it  to  his  bosom, 
he  wetted  it  with  tears,  because  she  had  breathed  upon  it. 
Oh,  how  still,  how  dreary,  how  desolate,  did  all  appear  around 
him  ! “ And  shall  this  desolation  never  more  be  enlightened,”  he 
exclaimed,  ‘‘by  the  soft  music  of  Malvina’s  voice  ? Shall  these 
eyes  never  more  be  cheered  by  beholding  her  angelic  face  ? ” 
Exhausted  by  his  feelings,  he  sunk  into  a slumber : he  dreamt 
of  Malvina,  and  thought  she  lay  beside  him  : he  awoke  with 
sudden  ecstasy,  and  under  the  strong  impression  of  the  dream, 
stretched  out  his  arms  to  enfold  her.  Alas  ! all  was  empty 
void  : he  started  up — he  groaned  in  the  bitterness  ^f  his  so»l — 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


2$ 


he  traversed  the  room  with  a distracted  pace  — he  sat  him 
down  in  a little  window,  from  whence  he  could  view  the  spire 
of  the  church  (now  glistening  in  the  moonbeams)  by  which 
she  was  interred.  “ Deep,  still,  and  profound,’’  cried  he, 
“ is  now  the  sleep  of  my  Malvina — the  voice  of  love  cannot 
awake  her  from  it ; nor  does  she  now  dream  of  her  midnight 
mourner.” 

The  cold  breeze  of  night  blew  upon  his  forehead,  but  he 
heeded  it  not ; his  whole  soul  was  full  of  Malvina,  whom  tortur- 
ing fancy  presented  to  his  view,  in  the  habiliments  of  the  grave. 
“ And  is  this  emaciated  form,  this  pale  face,”  he  exclaimed,  as 
if  he  had  really  seen  her,  “ all  that  remain  of  elegance  and 
beauty,  once  unequalled  ! ” 

A native  sense  of  religion  alone  checked  the  transports  of 
his  grief ; that  sweet,  that  sacred  power,  which  pours  balm 
upon  the  wounds  of  sorrow,  and  saves  its  children  from  despair ; 
that  power  whispered  to  his  heart,  a patient  submission  to  the 
will  of  heaven  w^as  the  surest  means  he  could  attain  of  again 
rejoining  his  Malvina. 

She  was  Interred  in  the  village  church-yard : at  the  head  of 
her  grave  a stone  was  placed,  on  which  was  rudely  cut, 

MALVINA  FITZALAN, 

ALIKE  LOVELY  AND  UNFORTUNATE. 

Fitzalan  would  not  permit  her  empty  title  to  be  on  it : ‘‘  She 
is  buried,”  he  said,  “ as  the  wife  of  a wretched  soldier,  not  as 
the  daughter  of  a wealthy  peer.” 

She  had  requested  her  infant  might  be  called  after  her  own 
mother ; her  request  was  sacred  to  Fitzalan,  and  it  was  baptized 
by  the  united  names  of  Amanda  Malvina.  Mrs.  Edwkt  was 
then  nursing  her  first  girl ; but  she  sent  it  out,  and  took  the 
infant  of  Fitzalan  in  its  place  to  her  bosom. 

The  money,  which  Fitzalan  had  procured  by  disposing  of 
his  commission,  was  now  nearly  exhausted  ; but  his  mind  was 
too  enervated  to  allow  him  to  think  of  any  project  fcr  future 
support.  Lady  Malvina  was  deceased  two  months,  when  a 
nobleman  came  into  the  neighborhood,  with  whom  Fitzalan  had 
once  been  intimately  acquainted : the  acquaintance  was  now 
renewed  ; and  Fitzalan’s  appearance,  v/ith  the  little  history  of 
his  misfortunes,  so  much  affected  and  interested  his  friend,  that, 
without  solicitation,  he  procured  him  a company  in  a regiment, 
;hen  stationed  in  England.  Thus  did  Fitzalan  again  enter  into 


the  children  of  the  abbey. 

active  life ; but  his  spirits  were  broken,  and  his  constitution 
injured.  Four  years  he  continued  in  the  army ; when,  pining 
CO  have  his  children  (all  that  now  remained  of  a woman  he 
adored)  under  his  own  care,  he  obtained,  through  the  interest 
of  his  friend,  leave  to  sell  out.  Oscar  was  then  eight,  and 
Amanda  four ; the  delighted  father,  as  he  held  them  to  his 
heart,  wept  over  them  tears  of  mingled  pain  and  pleasure. 

He  had  seen  in  Devonshire,  where  he  was  quartered  for 
some  time,  a little  romantic  solitude,  quite  adapted  to  his  taste 
and  finances ; he  proposed  for  it,  and  soon  became  its  proprie* 
tor.  Hither  he  carried  his  children,  much  against  the  inclina- 
tions of  the  Edwins,  who  loved  them  as  their  own  : two  excellent 
schools  in  the  neighborhood  gave  them  the  usual  advantages 
of  genteel  education ; but  as  they  v/ere  only  day  scholars,  the 
improvement,  or  rather  forming  of  their  morals,  was  the  pleas- 
ing task  of  their  father.  To  his  assiduous  care  too  they  were 
indebted  for  the  rapid  progress  they  made  in  their  studies,  and 
for  the  graceful  simplicity  of  their  manners  : they  rewarded  his 
care,  and  grew  up  as  amiable  and  lovely  as  his  fondest  wishes 
could  desire.  As  Oscar  advanced  in  life,  his  father  began  to 
experience  new  cares ; for  he  had  not  the  power  of  putting  him 
in  the  way  of  making  any  provision  for  himself.  A military 
life  was  what  Oscar  appeared  anxious  for : he  had  early  con- 
ceived a predilection  for  it,  from  hearing  his  father  speak  of  the 
services  he  had  seen ; but  though  he  possessed  quite  the  spirit 
of  a hero,  he  had  the  truest  tenderness,  the  most  engaging  soft- 
ness of  disposition ; his  temper  was,  indeed,  at  once  mild, 
artless,  and  affectionate.  He  was  about  eighteen,  when  the 
proprietor  of  the  estate,  on  which  his  father  held  his  farm, 
died,  and  his  heir,  a colonel  in  the  army,  immediately  came 
down  from  London  to  take  formal  possession : he  soon  be- 
came acquainted  with  Fitzalan,  who,  in  the  course  of  con- 
versation, one  day  expressed  the  anxiety  he  suffered  on  his 
son’s  account.  The  Colonel  said  he  was  a fine  youth,  and  it 
was  a pity  he  was  not  provided  for.  He  left  Devonshire,  how- 
ever, shortly  after  this,  without  appearing  in  the  least  inter- 
ested about  him. 

Fitzalan ’s  heart  was  oppressed  with  anxiety ; he  could  not 
purchase  for  his  son,  without  depriving  himself  o!  support. 
With  the  nobleman  who  had  formerly  served  him  so  essentially, 
he  had  kept  up  no  intercourse,  since  he  quitted  the  army ; but 
he  frequently  heard  of  him,  and  was  told  he  had  become  quite 
a man  of  the  world,  which  was  an  implication  of  his  having  lost 

feeling : an  application  to  him,  therefore,  he  feared,  would 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


29 

Colonel)  could  contribute  to  the  amusement  of  his  friend. 
Amanda  innocently  increased  his  flame,  by  the  attention  she 
paid  which  she  considered  but  a just  tribute  of  gratitude  for 
his  services  : she  delighted  in  talking  to  him  of  her  dear  Oscar, 
and  often  mentioned  his  lady  ; but  was  surprised  to  find  he 
always  waived  the  latter  subject. 

Belgrave  could  not  long  restrain  the  impetuosity  of  his  pas^ 
sions : the  situation  of  Fitzalan  (which  he  knew  to  be  a dis- 
tressed one)  would,  he  fancied,  forward  his  designs  on  his 
daughter ; and  what  those  designs  were,  he,  by  degrees,  in  a 
retired  walk  one  day,  unfolded  to  Amanda.  At  first  she  did 
not  perfectly  understand  him  ; but  when,  with  increased  au- 
dacity, he  explained  himself  more  fully,  horror,  indignation,  and 
surprise  took  possession  of  her  breast ; and,  yielding  to  their 
feelings,  she  turned  and  fled  to  the  house,  as  if  from  a monster. 
Belgrave  was  provoked  and  mortified  ; the  softness  of  her  man 
ners  had  tempted  him  to  believe  he  was  not  indifferent  to  her, 
and  that  she  would  prove  an  easy  conquest. 

Poor  Amanda  would  not  appear  in  the  presence  of  her  father, 
till  she  had,  in  some  degree,  regained  composure,  as  she  feared 
the  smallest  intimation  of  the  affair  might  occasion  fatal  conse- 
quences. As  she  sat  with  him,  a letter  was  brought  her ; she 
could  not  think  Belgrave  would  have  the  effrontery  to  write, 
and  opened  it,  supposing  it  came  from  some  acquaintance  in 
the  neighborhood.  How  great  was  the  shock  she  sustained, 
on  finding  it  from  him ! Having  thrown  off  the  mask,  he  de- 
termined no  longer  to  assume  any  disguise.  Her  paleness  and 
confusion  alarmed  her  father,  and  he  instantly  demanded  the 
cause  of  her  agitation.  She  found  longer  concealment  was  im- 
possible ; and,  throwing  herself  at  her  father’s  feet,  besought 
him,  as  she  put  the  letter  into  his  hands,  to  restrain  his  passion. 
When  he  perused  it,  he  raised  her  up,  and  commanded  her,  as 
she  valued  his  love  or  happiness,  to  inform  him  of  every  par- 
ticular relative  to  the  insult  she  had  received.  She  obeyed, 
though  terrified  to  behold  her  father  trembling  with  emotion. 
When  she  concluded,  he  tenderly  embraced  her ; and,  bidding 
her  confine  herself  to  the  house,  rose,  and  took  down  his  hat. 
It  was  easy  to  guess  whither  he  was  going  ; her  terror  increased  ; 
and,  in  a voice  scarcely  articulate,  she  besought  him  not  to  risk 
his  safety.  He  commanded  her  silence,  with  a sternness  never 
before  assumed.  His  manner  awed  her;  but,  when  she  saw 
him  leaving  the  room,  her  feelings  could  no  longer  be  controlled 
— she  rushed  after  him,  and  flinging  her  arms  round  his  neck, 
fainted  on  it.  In  this  situation  the  unhappy  father  was  com- 


30 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


pelled  to  leave  her  to  the  care  of  a maid,  lest  her  pathetic  re- 
monstrances should  delay  the  vengeance  he  resolved  to  take  on 
a wretch  who  had  meditated  a deed  of  such  atrocity  against  his 
peace  ; but  Belgrave  was  not  to  be  found. 

Scarcely,  however,  had  Fitzalan  returned  to  his  half-dis- 
tracted daughter  ere  a letter  was  brought  him  from  the  wretch, 
in  which  he  made  the  most  degrading  proposals ; and  bade 
Fitzalan  beware  how  he  answered  them,  as  his  situation  had 
put  him  entirely  into  his  power.  This  was  a fatal  truth  : Fitz- 
alan had  been  tempted  to  make  a lan-ge  addition  to  his  farm, 
from  an  idea  of  turning  the  little  money  he  possessed  to  ad- 
vantage : but  he  was  more  ignorant  of  agriculture  than  he  had 
imagined  ; and  this  ignorance,  joined  to  his  own  integrity  of 
heart,  rendered  him  the  dupe  of  some  designing  wretches  in 
his  neighborhood  : his  whole  stock  dwindled  away  in  unprofit- 
able experiments,  and  he  was  now  considerably  in  arrears  with 
Belgrave.  The  ungenerous  advantage  he  strove  to  take  of  his 
situation,  increased,  if  possible,  his  indignation  ; and  again  he 
sought  him,  but  still  without  success. 

Belgrave  soon  found  no  temptation  of  prosperity  would  pre- 
vail on  the  father  or  daughter  to  accede  to  his  wishes  ; he  there- 
fore resolved  to  try  whether  the  pressure  of  adversity  would 
render  them  more  complying,  and  left  the  country,  having  first 
ordered  his  steward  to  proceed  directly  against  Fitzalan. 

The  consequence  of  this  order  was  an  immediate  execution 
on  his  effects ; and,  but  for  the  assistance  of  a good-natured 
farmer,  he  would  have  been  arrested.  By  his  means,  and  under 
favor  of  night,  he  and  Amanda  set  out  for  London ; they  ar- 
rived there  in  safety,  and  retired  to  obscure  lodgings.  In  this 
hour  of  distress,  Fitzalan  conquered  all  false  pride,  and  wrote 
to  Lord  Cherbury,  entreating  him  to  procure  some  employment 
which  would  relieve  his  present  distressing  situation.  He  cau- 
tiously concealed  everything  relative  to  Belgrave — he  could  not 
bear  that  it  should  be  known  that  he  had  ever  been  degraded 
by  his  infamous  proposals.  Oscar’s  safety,  too,  he  knew  de- 
pended on  his  secrecy ; as  he  was  well  convinced  no  idea  of 
danger,  or  elevation  of  rank,  would  secure  the  wretch  from  his 
fury,  who  had  meditated  so  great  an  injury  against  his  sister. 

He  had  the  mortification  of  having  the  letter  he  sent  to 
Lord  Cherbury  returned,  as  his  lordship  was  then  absent  from 
town  ; nor  was  he  expected  for  some  months,  having  gone  on 
an  excursion  of  pleasure  to  France.  Some  of  these  months 
had  lingered  away  in  all  the  horrors  of  anxiety  and  distress, 
when  Fitzalan  formed  the  resolutiort  of  sending  Amanda  into 


THE'  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Si 

Wales,  whose  health  had  considerably  suffered,  from  the  com- 
plicated uneasiness  and  terror  she  experienced  on  her  own  and 
her  father^s  account. 

Belgrave  had  traced  the  fugitives ; and  though  Fitzalan  was 
guarded  against  all  the  stratagems  he  used  to  have  him  arrested, 
he  found  means  to  have  letters  conveyed  to  Amanda,  full  of 
base  solicitations  and  insolent  declarations,  that  the  rigor  he 
treated  her  father  with  was  quite  against  his  feelings,  and  should 
instantly  be  withdrawn,  if  she  acceded  to  the  proposals  he  made 
for  her. 

But  though  Fitzalan  had  determined  to  send  Amanda  into 
Wales,  with  whom  could  he  trust  his  heart’s  best  treasure  ? At 
last  the  son  of  the  worthy  farmer  who  had  assisted  him  in  his 
journey  to  London,  occurred  to  his  remembrance ; he  came 
often  to  town,  and  always  called  on  Fitzalan.  The  young  man, 
the  moment  it  was  proposed,  expressed  the  greatest  readiness 
to  attend  Miss  Fitzalan.  As  every  precaution  was  necessary, 
her  father  made  her  take  the  name  of  Dunford,  and  travel  in 
the  mail-coach,  for  the  greater  security.  He  divided  the  con- 
tents of  his  purse  with  her  ; and  recommending  this  lovely  and 
most  beloved  child  to  the  protection  of  heaven,  saw  her  depart, 
with  mingled  pain  and  pleasure  \ promising  to  give  her  the  earliest 
intelligence  of  Lord  Cherbury’s  arrival  in  town,  which,  he  sup- 
posed, would  fix  his  future  destiny.  Previous  to  her  departure, 
he  wrote  to  the  Edwins,  informing  them  of  her  intended  visit, 
and  also  her  change  of  name  for  the  present.  This  latter  cir- 
cumstance, which  was  not  satisfactorily  accounted  for,  excited 
their  warmest  curiosity ; and  not  thinking  it  proper  to  ask 
Amanda  to  gratify  it,  they,  to  use  their  own  words,  sifted  her 
companion,  who  hesitated  not  to  inform  them  of  the  indignities 
she  had  suffered  from  Colonel  Belgrave,  which  were  well  known 
about  his  neighborhood. 


33 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  AS  BEY. 


CHAPTER  III. 

“——Thy  grave  shall  with  fresh  flowers  be  dressed. 
And  the  green  turf  lie  lightly  on  thy  breast  ; 

There  shall  the  morn  her  earliest  tears  bestow. 
There  the  first  roses  of  the  year  shall  blow.’^ — Pope. 


A GENTLE  noise  in  her  chamber  roused  Amanda  from  a light, 
refreshing  slumber,  and  she  beheld  her  nurse  standing  by  her 
bedside  with  a bowl  of  goat^s  whey.  Amanda  took  the  salu- 
brious draught  with  a smile,  and  instantly  starting  up,  was 
dressed  in  a few  minutes.  She  felt  more  composed  than  she 
had  done  for  some  time  past ; the  transition  from  a narrow 
dark  street  to  a fine  open  country,  would  have  excited  a lively 
transport  in  her  mind,  but  for  the  idea  of  her  father  still  re. 
maining  in  the  gloomy  situation  she  had  quitted. 

On  going  out,  she  found  the  family  all  busily  employed  ; 
Edwin  and  his  sons  were  mowing  in  a meadow  near  the  house, 
the  nurse  was  churning,  Ellen  washing  the  milk-pails  by  the 
stream  in  the  valley,  and  Betsey  turning  a cake  for  her  break- 
fast. The  tea-table  was  laid  by  a window,  through  which  a 
woodbine  crept,  diffusing  a delightful  fragrance ; the  bees 
feasted  on  its  sweetness,  and  the  gaudy  butterflies  fluttered 
around  it ; the  refulgent  sun  gladdened  the  face  of  nature ; the 
morning  breeze  tempered  its  heat,  and  bore  upon  its  dewy 
wings  the  sweets  of  opening  flowers  ; birds  carolled  their  matins 
almost  on  every  spray ; and  scattered  peasants,  busied  in  their 
various  labors,  enlivened  the  extensive  prospect. 

Amanda  was  delighted  with  all  she  saw,  and  wrote  to  her 
father  that  his  presence  was  only  wanting  to  complete  her 
pleasure.  The  young  man  who  had  attended  her,  on  receiving 
her  letter,  set  out  for  the  village,  from  whence  he  was  to  return 
in  a stage-coach  to  London. 

The  morning  was  passed  by  Amanda  in  arranging  her  little 
affairs,  walking  about  the  cottage,  and  conversing  with  the 
nurse  relative  to  past  times  and  present  avocations.  When  the 
hour  for  dinner  came,  by  her  desire  it  was  carried  out  into  the 
recess  in  the  garden,  where  the  balmy  air,  the  lovely  scene 
which  surrounded  her,  rendered  it  doubly  delicious. 

In  the  evening  she  asked  Ellen  to  take  a walk  with  her,  to 
jvhich  she  joyfully  consented.  And  pray,  Miss,’^  said  Ellen, 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


33 


after  she  had  smartened  herself  up  with  a clean  white  apron, 
her  Sunday  cap,  and  a hat  loaded  with  poppy-colored  ribbons, 
smiling  as  she  spoke,  at  the  pretty  image  her  glass  reflected, 
“ where  shall  we  go  ? ‘‘  To  the  church-yard,”  replied  Amanda. 

Oh,  Lord,  Miss  ! won’t  that  be  rather  a dismal  place  to  go 
to  ? ” Indulge  me,  my  dear  Ellen,”  said  Amanda,  ‘‘  in  show- 
ing me  the  way  thither ; there  is  one  spot  in  it  my  heart  wants 
to  visit.” 

The  church-yard  lay  at  the  entrance  of  the  little  village  ; the 
church  was  a small  structure,  whose  gothic  appearance  pro- 
claimed its  ancient  date  ; it  was  rendered  more  venerable  by  the 
lofty  elms  and  yews  which  surrounded  it,  apparently  coeval  with 
itself,  and  which  cast  dark  shades  upon  the  spots  where  the 
“ rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  slept,”  which, 

‘‘  With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  decked, 

Implored  the  passing  tribute  of  a sigh.” 

And  it  was  a tribute  Amanda  paid,  as  she  proceeded  to  the 
grave  of  Lady  Malvina,  which  Ellen  pointed  out ; it  ,was  over 
grown  with  grass,  and  the  flag,  which  bore  her  name,  green 
from  time  and  damp.  Amanda  involuntarily  sunk  on  her 
knees,  and  kissed  the  hallowed  earth  ; her  dyes  caught  the 
melancholy  inscription.  “ Sweet  spirit,”  she  said,  “ heaven  now 
rewards  your  sufferings.  Oh,  my  mother  ! if  departed  spirits 
are  ever  allowed  to  review  this  world,  with  love  ineffable  you 
may  now  be  regarding  your  child.  Oh,  if  she  is  doomed  to 
tread  a path  as  thorny  as  the  one  you  trod,  may  the  same 
sweetness  and  patience  that  distinguished  you,  support  her 
through  it ! with  the  same  pious  awe,  the  same  meek  submission, 
may  she  bow  to  the  designations  of  her  Creator ! ” 

The  affecting  apostrophe  drew  tears  from  the  tender- 
hearted Ellen,  who  besought  her  not  to  continue  longer  in  such 
a dismal  place.  Amanda  now  arose  weeping — her  spirits  were 
entirely  overcome ; the  busy  objects  of  day  had  amused  her 
mind,  and  prevented  it  from  meditating  on  its  sorrow  ; but,  in 
the  calm  solitude  of  the  evening,  they  gradually  revived  in  her 
remembrance.  Her  father’s  ill-health,  she  feared,  would  in- 
crease for  want  of  her  tender  attentions  ; and  when  she  thought 
of  his  distress,  his  confinement,  his  dejection,  she  felt  agony  at 
thei'r  separation. 

Her  melancholy  was  noticed  at  the  cottage.  Ellen  informed 
the  nurse  of  the  dismal  walk  they  had  taken,  which  at  once 
accounted  for  it ; and  the  good  woman  exerted  herself  to  en- 
liven her  dear  child,  but,  Amanda,  though  she  faintly  smiled, 


cmiDREN  AEBKT. 


was  not  to  be  cheered,  and  soon  retired  to  bed — pale,  languid, 
and  unhappy. 

Returning  light,  in  some  degree,  dispelled  her  melancholy ; 
she  felt,  however,  for  the  first  time,  that  her  hours  would  hang 
heavy  on  her  hands,  deprived  as  she  was  of  those  delightful  re- 
sources which  had  hitherto  diversified  them.  To  pass  her  time 
in  listless  inaction,  or  idle  saunters  about  the  house,  was  insup- 
• portable  , and  besides,  she  found  her  presence  in  the  morning 
was  a restraint  on  her  humble  friends,  who  did  not  deem  it 
good  manners  to  work  before  her ; and  to  them,  who,  like  the 
bees,  were  obliged  to  lay  up  their  wintry  hoard  in  summer,  tliQ 
loss  of  time  was  irreparable. 

In  the  distraction  of  her  father’s  affairs,  she  had  lost  her 
books,  implements  for  drawing,  and  musical  instruments ; andi 
in  the  cottage  she  could  only  find  a Bible,  a family  prayer-book, 
and  a torn  volume  of  old  ballads. 

“Tear  heart,  now  I think  on’t,”  said  the  nurse,  “you  may 
go  to  the  library  at  Tudor  Hall,  where  there  are  books  enough 
to  keep  ypu  a-going,  if  you  lived  to  the  age  of  Methusalem  him- 
self ; and  very  pretty  reading  to  be  sure  amongst  them,  or  our 
Parson  Howel  would  not  have  been  going  there  as  often  as  he 
did  to  study,  till  he  got  a library  of  his  own.  The  family  are 
all  away  ; and  as  the  door  is  open  every  fine  day  to  air  the  room, 
you  will  not  be  noticed  by  nopoty  going  into  it ; though,  for  that 
matter,  poor  old  Mrs.  Abergwilly  would  make  you  welcome 
enough,  if  you  promised  to  take  none  of  the  books  away  with 
you.  But  as  I know  you  to  be  a little  bashful  or  so,  I will,  i£ 
you  choose,  step  over  and  ask  her  leave  for  you  to  go.’’  “ If 

you  please,”  said  Amanda  ; “ I should  not  like  to  go  without 
it.”  “ Well,  I sha’n’t  be  long,”  continued  the  nurse,  “ and 
Ellen  shall  show  you  the  way  to-day ; it  will  be  a pretty  pit  of  a 
walk  for  you  to  take  every  morning.” 

The  nurse  w^as  as  good  as  her  word  ; she  returned  soon 
with  Mrs.  Abergwilly’s  permission  for  Amanda  to  read  in  the 
library  whenever  she  pleased.  In  consequence  of  this,  she 
immediately  proceeded  to  the  Hall,  whose  white  turrets  were 
seen  from  the  cottage : it  was  a large  and  antique  building, 
embosomed  in  a grove  ; the  library  was  on  the  ground-floor, 
and  entered  by  a spacious  folding-door.  As  soon  as  she  had 
reached  it,  Ellen  left  her,  and  returned  to  the  cottage  ; and 
Amanda  began  with  pleasure  to  examine  the  apartment, 
whose  elegance  and  simplicity  struck  her  with  immediate 
admiration. 

On  one  side  was  a row  of  large  windows,  arched  quite  in  the 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


35 

gothic  style ; opposite  to  them  were  corresponding  arches,  in 
whose  recesses  the  bookcases  were  placed  ; round  these  arches 
were  festoons  of  laurel,  elegantly  executed  in  stucco-work ; and 
above  them  medallions  of  some  of  the  most  celebrated  poets  ; 
the  chimney-piece,  of  the  finest  Italian  marble,  was  beautifully 
inlaid  and  ornamented ; the  paintings  on  the  ceiling  were  all 
highly  finished,  and  of  the  allegorical  kind  ; and  it  was  difficult 
to  determine  whether  the  taste  that  designed,  or  the  hand  that 
executed  them,  merited  most  praise  ; upon  marble  pedestals 
stood  a celestial  and  terrestrial  globe,  and  one  recess  was 
entirely  hung  with  maps.  It  was  a room,  from  its  situation  and 
appearance,  peculiarly  adopted  for  study  and  contemplation  ; 
all  around  was  solitude  and  silence,  save  the  rustling  of 
the  trees,  whose  dark  foliage  cast  a solemn  shade  upon  the 
windows. 

Opposite  the  entrance  was  another  folding-door,  which  being 
a little  opened,  Amanda  could  not  resist  the  desire  she  felt  of 
seeing  what  was  beyond  it.  She  entered  a large  vaulted  apart- 
ment, whose  airy  lightness  formed  a pleasing  contrast  to  the 
gloomy  one  she  had  left.  The  manner  in  which  it  was  fitted 
up,  and  the  musical  instruments,  declared  this  to  be  a music- 
room.  It  was  hung  with  pale  green  damask,  spotted  with  silver, 
and  bordered  with  festoons  of  roses,  intermingled  with  light 
silver  sprays ; the  seats  corresponded  to  the  hangings ; the 
tables  were  of  fine  inlaid  wood;  and  superb  lustres  were 
suspended  from  the  ceiling,  which  represented,  in  a masterly 
style,  scenes  from  some  of  the  pastoral  poets ; the  orchestra, 
about  the  centre  of  the  room,  was  enclosed  with  a light  balus- 
trading  of  white  marble,  elevated  by  a few  steps. 

The  windows  of  this  room  commanded  a pleasing  prospect 
of  a deep  romantic  dale  ; the  hills  through  which  it  wound, 
displaying  a beautiful  diversity  of  woody  scenery,  interspersed 
with  green  pastures  and  barren  points  of  rocks  : a fine  fall  of 
water  fell  from  one  of  the  highest  of  the  hills,  which,  broken  by 
intervening  roots  and  branches  of  trees,  ran  a hundred  differ- 
ent ways,  sparkling  in  the  sunbeams  as  they  emerged  from  the 
shade, 

Amanda  stood  long  at  a window,  enjoying  this  delightful 
prospect,  and  admiring  the  taste  which  had  chosen  this  room 
for  amusement ; thus  at  once  gratifying  the  eye  and  ear.  On 
looking  over  the  instruments,  she  saw  a pianoforte  unlocked  ^ 
she  gently  raised  the  lid,  and  touching  the  keys,  found  them  in 
tolerable  order.  Amanda  adored  music  ; her  genius  for  it  was 
great,  and  had  received  every  advantage  her  father  could 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


36 

possibly  give  it;  in  cultivating  it  he  had  laid  up  a fund  of 
delight  for  himself,  for  '‘his  soul  was  a stream  that  flowed  at 
pleasant  sounds/’ 

Amanda  could  not  resist  the  present  opportunity  of  grati- 
fying her  favorite  inclination.  “Harmony  and  I/’  cried  she, 
“ have  long  been  strangers  to  each  other.”  She  sat  down  and 
played  a little  tender  air : those  her  father  loved,  recurred  to 
her  recollection,  and  she  played  a few  of  them  with  even  more 
than  usual  elegance.  “ Ah,  dear  and  valued  object,”  she  mourn- 
fully sighed,  “ why  are  you  not  here  to  share  my  pleasure 
She  wiped  away  a starting  tear  of  tender  remembrance,  and 
began  a simple  air — 

Ah  gentle  Hope,  shall  I no  more 
Thy  cheerful  influence  share  ? 

Oh  must  I still  thy  loss  deplore, 

And  be  the  slave  of  care  } 

The  gloom  which  now  obscures  my  days 
At  thy  approach  would  fly, 

And  glowing  fancy  would  display 
A bright  unclouded  sky. 

Night’s  dreary  shadows  fleet  away 
Before  the  orient  beam  ; 

So  sorrow  melts  before  thy  sway, 

Thou  nymph  of  cheerful  mien. 

Ah ! seek  again  my  lonely  breast. 

Dislodge  each  painful  fear  ; 

Be  once  again  my  heavenly  guest. 

And  stay  each  falling  tear. 

Amanda  saw  a number  of  music-books  lying  about;  she 
examined  a few,  and  found  they  contained  compositions  of 
some  of  the  most  eminent  masters.  They  tempted  her  to  con- 
tinue a little  longer  at  the  instrument : when  she  rose  from  it, 
she  returned  to  the  library,  and  began  looking  over  the  books, 
which  she  found  were  a collection  of  the  best  that  past  or 
present  times  had  produced.  She  soon  selected  one  for  peru- 
sal, and  seated  herself  in  the  recess  of  a window,  that  she 
might  enjoy  the  cool  breeze,  which  sighed  amongst  the  trees. 
Here,  delighted  with  her  employment,  she  forgot  the  progress 
of  time  ; nor  thought  of  moving,  till  Ellen  appeared  with  a re- 
quest from  the  nurse,  f )r  her  immediate  return,  as  her  dinner 
was  ready,  and  she  w^as  uneasy  at  her  fasting  so  long.  Amanda 
did  not  hesitate  to  comply  with  the  request ; but  she  resolved 
henceforth  to  be  a constant  visitor  to  the  hall,  which  contained 
such  pleasing  sources  of  amusement she  also  settled  in  hej 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


37 


own  mind  often  to  ramble  amidst  its  shades,  which  were  per- 
fectl}^’  adapted  to  her  taste.  These  resolutions  she  put  in 
practice  ; and  a week  passed  in  this  manner,  during  which  she 
heard  from  her  father,  who  informed  her,  that,  suspecting  the 
woman  with  whom  he  lodged  to  be  in  Colonel  Belgrave’s  inter- 
est, he  proposed  changing  his  abode ; he  desired  her  therefore 
not  to  write  till  she  heard  from  him  again,  and  added,  “ Lord 
Cherbury  was  daily  expected/' 


CHAPTER  IV, 

^‘Mine  eye'j  were  half  closed  in  sleep.  Soft  music  came  to  mine  ear;  it  was  like  the 
rising  breeze,  thf'.t  whirls  at  first,  the  thistle’s  beard,  that  flies,  dark  shadowy  over  the 
grass.” — OssiAN. 

Amanda  went  every  morning  to  the  hall,  where  she  alter- 
nately played  and  read  : in  the  evening  she  again  returned  to 
it ; but  instead  of  staying  in  the  library,  generally  took  a book 
from  thence,  and  read  at  the  foot  of  some  old  moss-covered 
tree,  delighted  to  hear  its  branches  gently  rustling  over  her 
head,  and  myriads  of  summer  flies  buzzing  in  the  sunny  ray, 
from  which  she  was  sheltered.  When  she  could  no  longer  see 
to  read,  she  deposited  her  book  in  the  place  she  had  taken  it 
from,  and  rambled  to  the  deepest  recesses  of  the  grove : this 
was  the  time  she  loved  to  saunter  carelessly  along,  while  all 
the  jarring  passions  that  obtruding  care  excited  were  hushed 
to  peace  by  the  solemnity  and  silence  of  the  hour,  and  the  soul 
felt  at  once  composed  and  elevated : this  was  the  time  she 
loved  to  think  on  days  departed,  and  sketch  those  scenes  of 
felicity  which,  she  trusted,  the  days  to  come  would  realize. 
Sometimes  she  gave  way  to  all  the  enthusiasm  of  a young  and 
romantic  fancy,  and  pictured  to  herself  the  time  when  the 
shades  she  wandered  beneath  were 

the  haunts  of  meditation. 

The  scenes,  where  ancient  bards  the  inspiring  breath 
Ecstatic  felt,  and,  from  this  world  retired. 

Conversed  with  angels,  and  immortal  forms, 

On  gracious  errands  bent ; to  save  the  fall 

Of  Virtue  struggling  on  the  brink  of  Vice. — Thomson. 

Her  health  gradually  grew  better,  as  the  tranquillity  of  her 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


38 

mind  increased  : a faint  blush  again  began  to  tinge  her  cheek, 
and  her  lovely  eyes  beamed  a placid  lustre,  through  their  long 
silken  lashes. 

She  returned  one  evening  from  her  usual  ramble,  with  one 
of  those  unaccountable  depressions  on  her  spirits  to  which,  in 
a greater  or  lesser  degree,  almost  every  one  is  subject.  When 
she  retired  to  bed,  her  sleeping  thoughts  took  the  tincture  of 
her  waking  ones,  and  images  of  the  most  affecting  nature  arose 
in  her  mind : she  went  through  the  whole  story  of  her  mother’s 
sufferings,  and  suddenly  dreamt  she  beheld  her  expiring  under 
the  greatest  torture  ; and  that  while  she  wept  her  fate  the 
clouds  opened,  and  discovered  her  adorned  with  seraphic 
beauty,  bending  with  a benignant  look  towards  her  child,  as  if 
to  assure  her  of  her  present  happiness.  From  this  dream 
Amanda  was  roused  by  the  softest,  sweetest  strains  of  music 
she  had  ever  heard  : she  started  with  amazement ; she  opened 
her  eyes,  and  saw  a light  around  her,  far  exceeding  that  of 
twilight.  Her  dream  had  made  a deep  impression  on  her,  and 
a solemn  awe  diffused  itself  over  her  mind ; she  trembled 
universally  ; but  soon  did  the  emotion  of  awe  give  way  to  that 
of  surprise,  when  she  heard  on  the  outside  of  the  window  the 
following  lines  from  Cowley,  sung  in  a manly  and  exquisitely 
melodious  voice,  the  music  which  awoke  her  being  only  a 
symphony  to  them : 

Awake,  awake,  my  lyre. 

And  tell  thy  silent  master’s  humble  tale 
In  sounds  that  may  prevail ; 

Sounds  that  gentle  thoughts  inspire. 

Though  so  exalted  she. 

And  I so  lowly  be, 

Tell  her  such  different  notes  make  all  thy  harmony. 

Hark,  how  the  strings  awake, 

And  though  the  moving  hand  approach  not  near 
Themselves  with  awful  fear, 

A kind  of  numerous  trembling  make. 

Now  all  thy  forces  try, 

Now  all  thy  charms  apply. 

Revenge  upon  her  ear  the  conquest  of  her  eye 

Weak  lyre,  thy  virtue  sure 
Is  useless  here,  since  thou  art  only  found 
To  cure,  but  not  to  wound, 

And  she  to  wound,  but  not  to  cure. 

Too  weak,  too,  wilt  thou  prove 
My  passion  to  remove, 

.pbycJc  ta  other  iJ  Is.  thou’rt  nourishment  to  love. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


39 


Sleep,  sleep  again,  my  lyre, 

For  thou  canst  never  tell  my  humble  tale. 

In  sounds  that  will  prevail. 

Nor  gentle  thoughts  in  her  inspire. 

All  thy  vain  mirth  lay  by, 

Bid  thy  strings  silent  lie, 

Sleep,  sleep  again,  my  lyre,  and  let  thy  master  die. 

Ere  the  voice  ceased,  Amanda  had  quite  shaken  off  the 
effects  of  her  dream  ; and  when  all  again  was  silent,  she  drew 
back  the  curtain,  and  saw  it  was  the  moon,  then  at  the  full, 
which,  beaming  through  the  calico  window-curtains,  cast  such 
a light  around  her.  The  remainder  of  the  night  was  passed  in 
ruminating  on  this  strange  incident ; it  was  evident  the  serenade 
was  addressed  to  her ; but  she  had  not  seen  any  one  since  her 
arrival  in  the  neighborhood  from  whom  she  could  have  expected 
such  a compliment,  or,  indeed,  believed  capable  of  paying  it ; 
that  the  person  who  paid  it  was  one  of  no  mean  accomplish' 
ments,  from  his  performance,  she  could  not  doubt.  She  re- 
solved to  conceal  the  incident,  but  to  make  such  inquiries  the 
next  morning  as  might  possibly  lead  to  a discovery.  From  the 
answers  those  inquiries  received,  the  clergyman  was  the  only 
person  whom,  with  any  degree  of  probability,  she  could  fix  on. 
She  had  never  seen  him,  and  was  at  a loss  to  conceive  how  he 
knew  anything  hi  her,  till  it  occurred  he  might  have  seen  her 
going  to  Tudor  Hall,  or  rambling  about  it 

From  the  moment  this  idea  arose,  Amanda  deemed  it  im 
prudent  to  g ^ to  the  hall ; yet,  so  great  was  the  pleasure  she 
experienced  tlere,  she  could  not  think  of  relinquishing  it  with- 
out the  greatest  reluctance.  She  at  last  considered,  if  she  had 
a companion,  it  would  remove  any  appearance  of  impropriety. 
Ellen  was  generally  employed  at  knitting ; Amanda  therefore 
saw,  that  going  to  the  hall  could  not  interfere  with  her  employ- 
ment, and  accordingly  asked  her  attendance  thither,  which  the 
other  joyfully  agreed  to. 

‘‘  While  you  look  over  the  books,’’  said  Ellen,  as  they  entered 
the  library,  “ I will  just  step  away  about  a little  business.""* 
“ I beg  you  may  not  be  long  absent,”  cried  Amanda.  Ellei^ 
assured  her  that  she  would  not,  and  flew  off  diiectly.  She  hacJ 
in  truth  seen,  in  an  enclosure  near  the  hall,  lirK  Chip,  th& 
carpenter,  at  work,  who  was  the  rural  Adonis  of  these  shades 
He  had  long  selected  Ellen  for  the  fair  nymph  of  his  affection 
which  distinction  excited  not  a little  jealousy  among  the  village 
girls,  and  considerably  increased  the  vanity  of  Ellen,  who 
triumphed  in  a conquest  that  at  once  gratified  her  love,  »nd 
exalted  her  above  her  companions. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


♦O 

Amanda  entered  the  music-room.  The  melodious  strains 
i^he  had  heard  the  preceding  night  dwelt  upon  her  memory, 
and  she  sat  down  to  the  piano  and  attempted  them  ; her  ear 
soon  informed  her  the  attempt  was  successful  ; and  her  voice 
(as  the  words  were  familiar  to  her)  then  accompanied  the  in- 
strument— Heavenly  sounds  I exclaimed  some  one  behind 
her,  as  she  concluded  singing.  Amanda  started  in  terror  and 
confusion  from  the  chair,  and  beheld  a tall  and  elegant  young 
man  standing  by  it.  ‘‘  Good  heaven  ! cried  she,  blushing  and 
hastily  moving  to  the  door,  scarcely  knowing  what  she  said, 
where  can  Ellen  be  ? “ And  do  you  think,”  said  the 

stranger,  springing  forward  and  intercepting  her  passage,  “ I 
shall  let  you  escape  in  this  manner  No  ; really,  my  charming 
girl,  I should  be  the  most  insensible  of  beings  if  I did  not  avail 
myself  of  the  happy  opportunity  chance  afforded  of  entreating 
leave  to  be  introduced  to  you.”  As  he  spoke,  he  gently  seized 
her  hand  and  carried  it  to  his  lips.  Be  assured,  sir,”  said 
Amanda,  “ the  chance,  as  you  call  it,  which  brought  us  together, 
is  to  me  most  unpleasant,  as  I fear  it  has  exposed  me  to  greater 
freedom  than  I have  been  accustomed  to.”  And  is  it  pos- 
sible,” said  he,  you  really  feel  an  emotion  of  anger  ? Well,  I 
will  relinquish  my  lovely  captive  if  she  condescendingly  promises 
to  continue  here  a few  minutes  longer,  and  grants  me  permis- 
sion to  attend  her  home.”  I insist  on  being  immediately 
released,”  exclaimed  Amanda.  ‘‘  1 obey,”  cried  he,  softly  press 
ing  her  hand,  and  then  resigning  it — ‘‘  you  are  free ; would  to 
Heaven  I could  say  the  same  ! ” 

Amanda  hurried  to  the  grove,  but  in  her  confusion  took 
the  wrong  path,  and  vainly  cast  her  eyes  around  in  search  of 
Ellen.  The  stranger  followed,  and  his  eyes  wandered  with  hers 
in  every  direction  they  took.  “ And  why,”  cried  he,  “ so  unpro- 
pitious  to  my  wish  of  introduction  ? — a wish  it  was  impossible 
not  to  feel  from  the  moment  you  were  seen.”  Amanda  made 
no  reply,  but  still  hurried  on,  and  her  fatigue  and  agitation  were 
soon  too  much  for  her  present  weak  state  of  health,  and,  quite 
overpowered,  she  was  at  last  compelled  to  stop,  and  lean  against 
a tree  for  support.  Exercise  had  diffused  its  softest  bloom 
over  her  cheek  ; her  hair  fluttered  in  the  breeze  that  played 
around  her,  and  her  eyes,  with  the  beautiful  embarrassment  of 
modesty,  were  bent  to  the  ground  to  avoid  the  stranger’s  ardent 
gaze.  He  watched  her  with  looks  of  the  most  impassioned 
admiration,  and  softly  exclaimed,  as  if  the  involuntary  exclama- 
tion of  rapture,  “Good  heavens,  what  an  angel!  Fatigue  has 
made  you  ilk”  he  said  ; “ and  ’tis  your  haste  to  avoid  me  has 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


At 

occasioned  this  disorder.  Could  you  look  into  my  heart,  you 
would  then  find  there  was  no  reason  to  fly  me  ; the  emotions 
that  lovely  face  excites  in  a soul  of  sensibility  could  never  be 
inimical  to  your  safet}^’’ 

At  this  moment  Amanda  perceived  Ellen  leaping  over  a 
style ; she  had  at  last  left  Mr.  Chip,  after  promising  to  meet  him 
in  the  evening  at  the  cottage,  where  the  blind  harper  was  to 
attend  to  give  them  a dance.  She  ran  forward,  but,  on  seeing 
the  stranger,  started  back  in  the  utmost  amazement.  ‘‘  Bless 
me ! ” said  Amanda,  I thought  you  would  never  come.’' 

You  go,  then,”  said  the  ctranger,  ‘‘and  give  me  no  hope  of  a 
second  interview.  Oh  say,”  taking  her  hand,  “ will  you  not 
allow  me  to  wait  upon  you  ? ” “ It  is  utterly  impossible,”  replied 
Amanda,  “and  I shall  be  quite  distressed  if  longer  detained.” 
“ See,  then,”  said  he,  opening  a gate  which  led  from  the  grove 
into  the  road,  “ how  like  a courteous  knight  I release  you  from 
painful  captivity.  But  thin^"  not,  thou  beautif  d though  cruel 
fair  one,”  he  continued  gayly,  “ I shall  resign  my  hopes  of  yet 
conquering  thy  obduracy.  ^ 

“ Oh,  Lord  ! ” cried  Ellen,  as  they  quitted  the  grove,  “ how 
did  you  meet  v/ith  Lord  Mortimer  ? ” “ Lord  Mortimer  ? ” re- 

peated Amanda,  “Yes,  himself,  inteed,”  said  Ellen  “and  I 
think  in  all  my  porn  days  I was  never  more  surprised  than 
when  I saw  him  with  you,  looking  so  soft  and  so  sweet  upon 
you  t to  be  sure  he  is  a beautiful  man,  and  besides  that,  the 
young  Lort  of  Tudor  Hall.”  Amanda’s  spirits  were  greatly 
flurried  when  she  heard  he  was  the  master  of  the  mansion, 
where  he  had  found  her  seated  with  as  much  composure  as  if 
possessor  of  it. 

As  they  were  entering  the  cottage,  Ellen,  twitching  Aman- 
da’s sleeve,  cried,  “ Look  ! look  ! ” Amanda,  -hastily  turning 
round,  perceived  Lord  Mortimer,,  v/ho  had  slowly  followed 
them  half  way  down  the  lane.  On  being  observed,  he  smiled, 
and  kissing  his  hand,  retired. 

Nurse  was  quite  delighted  at  her  child  being  seen  by  Lord 
Mortimer  (which  Ellen  informed  her  of)  : her  beauty,  she  was 
convinced,  had  excited  his  warmest  admiration ; and  admira- 
tion might  lead  (she  did  not  doubt)  to  something  more  impor- 
tant. Amanda’s  heart  fluttered  with  an  agreeable  sensation, 
as  Ellen  described  to  her  mother  the  tender  looks  with  which 
Lord  Mortimer  regarded  her.  She  was  at  first  inclined  to  be- 
lieve, that  in  his  lordship  she  had  found  the  person  whose 
melody  so  agreeably  disturbed  her  slumbers ; but  a minute’s^ 
reflection  convinced  her  this  belief  must  be  erroneous  : it  was 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


evident  (or  she  would  have  heard  of  it)  that  Lord  Mortimer 
'^ad  only  arrived  that  day  at  Tudor  Hall : and  even  had  he 
j^een  her  before,  upon  consideration  she  thought  it  improbable 
that  he  should  have  .taken  the  trouble  of  coming  in  such  a man- 
ner to  a person  in  a station,  to  all  appearance,  so  infinitely  be- 
neath his  own.  Yes,  it  was  plain,  chance  alone  had  led  him  to 
the  apartment  where  she  sat ; and  the  commcgiiplace  gallantry 
fashionable  men  are  accustomed  to,  had  dictated  the  language  he 
addressed  to  her.  She  half  sighed,  as  she  settled  the  matter 
thus  in  her  mind,  and  again  fixed  on  the  curate  as  her  sere- 
nader.  Well,  she  was  determined,  if  ever  he  came  in  her  way, 
and  dropped  a hint  of  an  attachment,  she  would  immediately 
crush  any  hope  she  might  have  the  vanity  to  entertain  1 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  blossoms  opening  to  the  day, 

The  dews  of  heaven  refined, 

Could  nought  of  purity  display 
To  emulate  his  inind.” — Goldsmith* 

After  tea  Amanda  asked  little  Betsey  to  accompany  her  in 
a walk  ; for  Ellen  (dressed  in  all  her  rural  finery)  had  gone  earlier 
in  the  evening  to  the  dance.  But  Amanda  did  not  begin  her 
walk  with  her  usual  alacrity  : her  bonnet  was  so  heavy,  and  then 
it  made  her  look  so  ill,  that  she  could  not  go  out  till  she  had 
made  some  alterations  in  it ; still  it  would  not  do  ; a hat  was 
tried  on ; she  liked  it  better,  and  at  last  set  out ; but  not  as 
usual  did  she  pause,  whenever  a new  or  lovely  feature  in  the 
landscape  struck  her  view,  to  express  her  admdration  : she  was 
often  indeed  so  absorbed  in  thought,  as  to  start  when  Betsey 
addressed  her,  which  was  often  the  case:  for  little  Betsey 
delighted  to  have  Miss  Amanda  to  trace  figures  for  her  in  the 
clouds,  and  assist  her  in  gathering  wild  flowers.  Scarcely 
knowing  which  way  they  went,  Amanda  rambled  to  the  village ; 
and  feeling  herself  fatigued,  turned  into  the  church-yard  to  rest 
upon  one  of  the  raised  flags. 

The  graves  were  ornamented  with  garlands  of  cut  paper, 
interwoven  with  flowers  : tributes  of  love  from  the  village  maids 
to  the  memory  of  their  departed  friends. 

As  Amanda  rested  herself,  she  twined  a garland  of  the  wild 
flowers  she  had  gathered  with  Betsey,  and  hung  it  over  the 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


43 


gravef  of  Lad}r  Malvina : her  fine  eyes  raised  to  heaven,  as  if 
invoking  at  that  moment  the  spirit  of  her  mother,  to  regard  the 
vernal  offering  of  her  child  ; while  her  white  hands  were  folded 
on  her  heart,  and.  she  softly  exclaimed,  Alas,  is  this  the  only 
tribute  for  me  to  pay  ! ’’ 

A low  murmur,  as  if  from  voices  near,  startled  her  at  the 
instant ; she  turned  with  quickness,  and  saw  Lord  Mortimer, 
with  a young  clergyman,  half  hid  by  some  trees,  attentively 
observing  her.  Blushing  and  confused,  she  drew  her  hat  over 
her  face,  and  catching  Betsey's  hand,  hastened  to  the  cottage. 

Lord  Mortimer  had  wandered  about  the  skirts  of  the  cottage, 
in  hopes  of  meeting  her  in  the  evening  ; on  seeing  the  direction 
she  had  taken  from  it,  he  followed  her,  and  just  as  she  entered 
the  church-yard,  unexpectedly  met  the  curate.  His  company, 
at  a moment  so  propitious  for  joining  Amanda,  he  could  well 
have  dispensed  with ; for  he  was  more  anxious  than  he  chose 
to  acknowledge  to  himself,  to  become  acquainted  with  her. 

Lord  Mortimer  was  now  in  the  glowing  prime  of  life  : his 
person  was  strikingly  elegant,  and  his  manners  insinuatingly 
pleasing ; seducing  sweetness  dwelt  in  his  smile,  and,  as  he 
pleased,  his  expressive  eyes  could  sparkle  with  intelligence,  or 
beam  with  sensibility  ; and  to  the  eloquence  of  his  language, 
the  harmony  of  his  voice  imparted  a charm  that  seldom  failed 
of  being  irresistible  ; his  soul  was  naturally  the  seat  of  every 
virtue  ; but  an  elevated  rank,  and  splendid  fortune,  had  placed 
him  in  a situation  somewhat  inimical  to  their  interests,  for  he 
had  not  always  strength  to  resist  the  strong  temptations  which 
surrounded  him  ; but  though  he,  sometimes  wandered  from  the 
boundaries  of  virtue,  he  had  never  yet  entered  upon  the  con- 
fines of  vice — never  really  injured  innocence,  or  done  a deed 
which  could  wound  the  bosom  of  a friend  : his  heart  was  alive 
to  every  noble  propensity  of  nature  ; comjDassion  was  one  of 
its  strongest  feelings,  and  never  did  his  hand  refuse  obedience 
to  the  generous  impulse.  Among  the  various  accomplishments 
he  possessed,  was  an  exquisite  taste  for  music,  which,  with 
every  other  talent,  had  been  cultivated  to  the  highest  degree  of 
possible  perfection  ; his  spending  many  years  abroad  had  given 
him  every  requisite  advantage  for  improving  it.  The  soft,  melo- 
dious voice  of  Amanda  would  of  itself  almost  have  made  a con- 
quest of  his  heart  ; but  aided  by  the  charms  of  her  face  and 
person,  altogether  were  irresistible. 

He  had  come  into  Wales  on  purpose  to  pay  a visit  to  an  old 
friend  in  the  Isle  of  Anglesey  : he  did  not  mean  to  stop  at 
Tudor  Hall ; but  within  a few  miles  of  it  the  phaeton,  in  which 


44 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


he  travelled  (from  the  fineness  of  the  weather),  was  overturned, 
and  he  severely  hurt.  He  procured  a hired  carriage,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  the  hall,  to  put  himself  into  the  hands  of  the  good 
old  housekeeper,  Mrs.  Abergwilly;  who,  possessing  as  great  a 
stock  of  medical  knowledge  as  Lady  Bountiful  herself,  he  be- 
lieved would  cure  his  bruises  with  as  much,  or  rather  more  ex- 
pedition, than  any  country  surgeon  whatever.  He  gave  strict 
orders  that  his  being  at  the  hall  should  not  be  mentioned,  as  he 
did  not  choose,  tne  few  days  he  hoped  and  believed  he  should 
continue  there,  to  be  disturbed  by  visits  which  he  knew  would 
be  paid  if  an  intimation  of  his  being  there  was  received.  From 
an  apartment  adjoining  the  music-room  he  had  discovered 
Amanda.  Though  scarcely  able  to  move,  at  the  first  sound  of 
her  voice  he  stole  to  the  door,  which  being  a little  open,  gave 
him  an  opportunity  of  seeing  her  perfectly  ; and  nothing  but  his 
situation  prevented  his  immediately  appearing  before  her,  and 
expressing  the  admiration  she  had  inspired  him  with.  As  soon 
as  she  departed  he  sent  for  the  housekeeper,  to  inquire  who  the. 
beautiful  stranger  was.  Mrs.  Abergwilly  only  knew  she  was  a 
young  lady  lately  come  from  London,  to  lodge  at  David  Edwin’s 
cottage,  whose  wife  had  entreated  permission  for  her  to  read  in 
the  library,  which,  she  added,  she  had  given,  seeing  that  his: 
lordship  read  in  his  dressing-room  ; but,  if  he  pleased,  she  would 
send  Miss  Dunford  word  not  to  come  again — By  no  means,” 
his  lordship  said.  Amanda  therefore  continued  her  visits  as 
usual,  little  thinking  with  what  critical  regard  and  fond  admira- 
tion she  was  observed.  Lord  Mortimer  daily  grew  better ; but 
the  purpose  for  which  he  had  come  into  Wales  seemed  utterly 
forgotten  ; he  had  a tincture  of  romance  in  his  disposition,  and 
availed  himself  of  his  recovery  to  gratify  it,  by  taking  a lute 
and  serenading  his  lovely  cottage  girl.  He  could  no  longer 
restrain  his  impatience  to  be  known  to  her ; and  the  next  day, 
stealing  from  his  retirement,  surprised  her  as  already  related. 

As  he  could  not,  without  an  utter  violation  of  good  manners, 
shake  off  Howel,  he  contented  himself  with  following  Amanda 
into  the  church-yard,  where,  shaded  by  trees,  he  and  his  com- 
panion stood  watching  her  unnoticed,  till  an  involuntary  excla- 
mation of  rapture  from  his  lordship  discovered  their  situation. 
When  she  departed,  he  read  the  inscription  on  the  tombstone ; 
but,  from  the  difference  of  names,  this  gave  no  insight  into  any 
connection  between  her  and  the  person  it  mentioned.  Howel 
could  give  no  information  of  either ; he  was  but  a young  man, 
lately  appointed  to  the  parsonage,  and  had  never  seen  Amanda 
till  that  evening. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


45 


Lord  Mortimer  was  solicitous,  even  to  a degree  of  anxiety, 
to  learn  the  real  situation  of  Amanda.  As  Howel,  in  his  pastoral 
function,  had  free  access  to  the  houses  of  his  parishioners,  it 
occurred  to  him  that  he  would  be  an  excellent  person  to  dis- 
cover it ; he  therefore,  as  if  from  curiosity  alone,  expressed  his 
wish  of  knowing  who  she  was,  and  requested  Howel,  if  con- 
venient, to  follow  her  directly  to  Edwin’s  cottage  (where,  he 
said,  by  chance,  he  heard  she  lodged),  and  endeavor  to  find  out 
from  the  good  people  everything  about  her.  This  request  Howel 
readily  complied  with  ; the  face,  the  figure,  the  melancholy,  and, 
above  all,  the  employment  of  Amanda,  had  interested  his  sem 
sibility  and  excited  his  curiosity. 

He  arrived  soon  after  her  at  the  cottage,  and  found  her 
laughing  at  her  nurse,  who  was  telling  her  she  was  certain  she 
should  see  her  a great  lady.  Amanda  rose  to  retire  at  his  en- 
trance j but  he,  perceiving  her  intention,  declared  if  he  disturbed 
her,  he  would  immediately  depart ; she  accordingly  reseated 
herself,  secretly  pleased  at  doing  so,  as  she  thought,  either  from 
some  look  or  word  of  the  curate’s,  she  might  discover  if  he 
really  was  the  person  who  had  serenaded  her  ; from  this  idea 
she  showed  no  aversion  to  enter  into  conversation  with  him. 

The  whole  family,  nurse  excepted,  had  followed  Ellen  to  the 
dance  ; and  that  good  woman  thought  she  could  do  no  less,  for 
the  honor  of  Howel’s  visit,  than  prepare  a.  little  comfortable 
. supper  for  him.  The  benevolence  of  his  disposition,  and  in- 
nocent gayety  of  his  temper,  had  rendered  him  a great  favorite 
amongst  his  rustic  neighbors,  whom  he  frequently  amused  with 
simple  ballads  and  pleasant  tales.  Amanda  and  he  were  left 
tete-d-tete  while  the  nurse  was  busied  in  preparing  her  entertain- 
ment ; and  she  was  soon  as  much  pleased  with  the  elegance  and 
simplicity  of  his  manners,  as  he  was  with  the  innocence  and 
sweetness  of  hers.  The  objects  about  them  naturally  led  to 
rural  subjects,  and  from  them  to  what  might  almost  be  termed 
a dissertation  on  poetry ; this  was  a theme  peculiarly  agreeable 
to  Howel,  who  wooed  the  pensive  muse  beneath  the  sylvan' 
shade  ; nor  was  it  less  so  to  Amanda — she  was  a zealous  wor- 
shipper of  the  muses,  though  diffidence  made  her  conceal  her 
invocations  to  them.  She  was  led  to  point  out  the  beauties  of 
her  favorite  authors,  and  the  soft  sensibility  of  her  voice  raised 
a kind  of  tender  enthusiasm  in  Howel’s  soul  ; he  gazed  and 
listened,  as  if  his  eye  could  never  be  satisfied  with  seeing,  or 
his  ear  with  hearing.  At  his  particular  request,  Amanda  recited 
the  pathetic  description  of  the  curate  and  his  lovely  daughter 
from  the  Deserted  Village  ” — tear  stole  down  her  cheek  as 


46  the  children  of  the  abbey, 

she  proceeded.  Howel  softly  laid  his  hand  on  hers,  and  ex- 
claimed, ‘‘  Good  heavens,  what  an  angel ! ” 

“ Come,  come,”  said  Amanda,  smiling  at  the  energy  with 
which  he  spoke,  ‘‘you,  at  least,  should  have  nothing  to  do  with 
flattery.” 

“ Flattery  ! ” repeated  he,  emphatically  ; “ Oh  heavens  ! did 
you  but  know  my  sincerity ” 

“ Well,  well,”  cried  she,  wishing  to  change  the  subject, 
‘‘utter  no  expression  in  future  which  shall  make  me  doubt  it.” 

“To  flatter  you,”  said  he,  “would  be  impossible,  since  the 
highest  eulogium  must  be  inadequate  to  your  merits.” 

“ Again  ! ” said  Amanda. 

“ Believe  me,”  he  replied,  “flattery  is  a meanness  I abhor; 
the  expressions  you  denominate  as  such  proceed  from  emotions 
I should  contemn  myself  for  want  of  sensibility  if  I did  not 
experience.” 

The  nurse’s  duck  and  green  peas  were  now  set  upon  the 
table,  but  in  vain  did  she  press  Howel  to  eat ; his  eyes  were  too 
\well  feasted  to  allow  him  to  attend  to  his  palate.  Finding  her 
entreaties  ineffectual  in  one  respect,  she  tried  them  in  another, 
and  begged  he  would  sing  a favorite  old  ballad  ; this  he  at  first 
hesitated  to  do,  till  Amanda  (from  a secret  motive  of  her  own) 
joined  in  the  entreaty ; and  the  moment  she  heard  his  voice, 
she  was  convinced  he  was  not  the  person  who  had  been  at  the 
outside  of  her  window.  After  his  complaisance  to  her,  she 
could  not  refuse  him  one  song.  The  melodious  sounds  sunk 
into  his  heart ; he  seemed  fascinated  to  the  spot,  nor  thought  of 
moving  till  the  nurse  gave  him  a hint  for  that  purpose,  being 
afraid  of  Amanda  sitting  up  too  late. 

He  sighed  as  he  entered  his  humble  dwelling-;  It  was  perhaps 
the  first  sigh  he  had  ever  heaved  for  the  narrowness  of  his  for- 
tune. “ Yet,”  cried  he,  casting  his  eyes  around,  “ in  this  abode, 
low  and  humble  as  it  is,  a soul  like  Amanda’s  might  enjoy 
felicity.” 

The  purpose  for  which  Lord  Mortimer  sent  him  to  the  cot- 
age,  and  Lord  Mortimer  himself,  were  forgotten.  His  lordship 
had  engaged  Howel  to  sup  with  him  after  the  performance  of 
his  embassy,  and  impatiently  awaited  his  arrival : he  felt  dis- 
pleased, as  the  hours  wore  away  without  bringing  him  ; and, 
unable  at  last  to  restrain  the  impetuosity  of  his  feelings,  pro- 
ceeded to  the  parsonage  ; which  he  entered  a few  minutes  after 
Howel.  He  asked,  with  no  great  complacency,  the  reason  he 
had  not  fulfilled  his  engagement.  Absorbed  in  one  idea,  Howel 
felt  confused,  agitated,  and  unable  to  frame  any  excuse  ; he 


TITE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


M 

therefore  simply  said,  what  in  reality  was  true,  that  he  had 
utterly  forgotten  it.’ ^ 

‘‘ I suppose,  then,  ’ exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer,  in  a ruffled 
voice,  “ you  have  been  very  agreeably  entertained  ? ” 

“ Delightfully,”  said  Howel. 

Lord  Mortimer  grew  more  displeased,  but  his  anger  was  now 
levelled  against  himself  as  well  as  Howel.  He  repented  and 
regretted  the  folly  which  had  thrown  Howel  in  the  way  of  such 
temptation,  and  had  perhaps  raised  a rival  to  himself. 

“ Well,”  cried  he,  after  a few  hasty  paces  about  the  room, 
and  pray,  what  do  you  know  about  Miss  Dunford  ? ” 

“About  her ! ” repeated  Howel,  as  if  starting  from  a reverie ; 
“ why — nothing.” 

“ Nothing ! ” re-echoed  his  lordship. 

“ No,”  replied  Howel,  “ except  that  she  is  an  angel.” 

Lord  Mortimer  was  now  thoroughly  convinced  all  was  over 
with  the  poor  parson  ; and  resolved,  in  consequence  of  this 
conviction,  to  lose  no  time  himself.  He  could  not  depart 
without  inquiring  how  the  evening  had  been  spent,  and  envied 
Howel  the  happy  minutes  he  had  so  eloquently  described. 


CHAPTER  VL 


“ Hither  turn 

Tliy  graceful  footsteps  ; hither,  gentle  maid. 

Incline  thy  polished  forehead.  Let  thy  eyes 
Effuse  the  mildness  of  their  azure  dawn ; 

And  may  the  fanning  breezes  waft  aside 
Thy  radiant  locks,  disclosing,  as  it  bends 
With  airy  softness  from  the  marble  neck, 

The  cheek  fair-blooming,  and  the  rosy  lip. 

Where  winning  smiles,  and  pleasure  sweet  as  love 
With  sanctity  and  wisdom,  tempering  blend 
Their  soft  allurements.’' — Akenside. 

While  Amanda  was  at  breakfast  the  next  morning,  Betsey 
brought  a letter  to  her ; expecting  to  hear  from  her  father,  she 
eagerly  opened  it,  and,  to  her  great  surprise,  persued  the  fol- 
lowing lines : — 


TO  MISS  DUNFORD. 

Lord  Mortimer  begs  reave  to  assure  Miss  Dunford  he  shall  remain  dia- 
satisfied  with  himself  till  he  has  an  opportunity  of  personally  apologizing 
to  hia  intrusion  yesterday.  If  the  sweetness  oi  her  disposition  fulfils 


rim  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


46 

promise  her  face  has  given  of  It,  he  flatters  himself  his  pardon  will  speedily 
be  accorded;  yet  never  shall  he  think  himself  entirely  forgiven,  if  her  visits 
to  the  library  are  discontinued.  Happy  and  honored  shall  Lord  Mortimer 
consider  himself,  if  Tudor  Hall  contains  anything  which  can  amuse  or  merit 
the  attention  of  Miss  Dunford. 

July  17  th. 

‘‘  From  Lord  Mortimer  ! said  Amanda,  with  involuntary 
emotion.  “ Well,  this  really  has  astonished  me.”  ‘‘  Oh  Lort, 
my  tear  ! ” cried  the  nurse  in  rapture. 

Amanda  waved  her  hand  to  silence  her,  as  the  servant 
stood  in  the  outside  room.  She  called  Betsey  : “ Tell  the  ser- 
vant,” said  she 

“ Lort  1 ” cried  the  nurse  softly,  and  twitching  her  sleeve, 
write  his  lortship  a little  pit  of  a note,  just  to  let  him  see 
what  a pretty  scribe  you  are.” 

Amanda  could  not  refrain  smiling ; but  disengaging  her- 
self from  the  good  woman,  she  arose,  and  going  to  the  servant, 
desired  him  to  tell  his  lord,  she  thanked  him  for  his  polite 
attention ; but  that  in  future  it  would  not  be  in  her  power  to 
go  to  the  library.  When  she  returned  to  the  room,  the  nurse 
bitterly  lamented  her  not  writing.  Great  matters,”  she  said, 
“had  often  arisen  from  small  beginnings.”  She  could  not 
conceive  why  his  lortship  should  be  treated  in  such  a manner  : 
it  w^as  not  the  way  she  had  ever  served  her  Edwin.  Lort,  she 
remembered  if  she  got  but  the  scrawl  of  a pen  from  him,  she 
used  to  sit  ip  to  answer  it.  Amanda  tried  to  persuade  her  it 
was  neithe  r necessary  or  proper  for  her  to  write.  An  hour 
passed  in  %irguments  between  them,  when  two  servants  came 
from  Tudoi  Hall  to  the  cottage  with  a small  bookcase,  which 
they  sent  in  to  Amanda,  and  their  lord’s  compliments,  that  in  a 
few  minutes  he  would  have  the  honor  of  paying  his  respects 
to  her. 

Amanda  felt  agitated  by  this  message ; but  it  was  the 
agitation  of  involuntary  pleasure.  Her  room  was  always  per- 
fectly neat,  yet  did  the  nurse  and  her  two  daughters  now  busy 
themselves  with  trying,  if  possible,  to  put  it  into  nicer  order : 
the  garden  was  ransacked  for  the  choicest  flowers  to  ornament 
it ; nor  would  they  depart  till  they  saw  Lord  Mortimer  ap- 
proaching. Amanda,  who  had  opened  the  bookcase,  then 
snatched  up  a book,  to  avoid  the  appearance  of  sitting  in 
expectation  of  his  coming. 

He  entered  with  an  air  at  once  easy  and  respectful,  and 
taking  her  hand,  besought  forgiveness  for  his  intrusion  the  pre- 
ceding day  Amanda  blushed,  and  faltered  out  something  of  the 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


49 


confusion  she  had  experienced  from  being  so  surprised;  he 
reseated  her,  and  drawing  a chair  close  to  hers,  said  he  had 
taken  the  liberty  of  sending  her  a few  books  to  amuse  her,  till 
she  again  condescended  to  visit  the  library,  which  he  entreated 
her  to  do  ; promising  that,  if  she  pleased,  both  it  and  the 
music-room  should  be  sacred  to  her  alone.  She  thanked  him 
for  his  politeness  ; but  declared  she  must  be  excused  from 
going.  Lord  Mortimer  regarded  her  with  a degree  of  tender 
admiration  ; an  admiration  heightened  by  the  contrast  he  drew 
in  his  mind  between  her  and  the  generality  of  fashionable 
women  he  had  seen,  whom  he  often  secret i]r  censured  for  sacri- 
ficing too  largely  at  the  shrine  of  art  and  fashion.  The  pale 
and  varied  blush  which  mantled  the  cheek  of  Amanda  at  once 
announced  itself  to  be  an  involuntary  suffusion ; and  her  dress 
was  only  remarkable  for  its  simplicity  ; she  wore  a.  plain  robe 
of  dimity,  and  an  abbey  cap  of  thin  muslin,  that  shaded,  with- 
out concealing,  her  face,  and  gave  to  it  the  soft  expression  of 
a Madonna ; her  beautiful  hair  fell  in  long  ringlets  down  her 
back,  and  curled  upon  her  forehead. 

“ Good  heaven  ! cried  Mortimer,  how  has  your  idea 
dwelt  upon  my  mind  since  last  night : if  in  the  morning  I was 
charmed,  in  the  evening  I was  enraptured.  Your  looks,  youi 
5ittitude,  were  then  beyond  all  that  imagination  could  conceive 
of  loveliness  and  grace  ; you  appeared  as  a being  of  another 
world  mourning  over  a kindred  spirit.  I felt 

“ Awe-struck,  and  as  I passed,  I worshipped.” 

Confused  by  the  energy  of  his  words,  and  the  ardent 
glances  he  directed  towards  her,  Amanda,  scarcely  knowing 
what  she  did,  turned  over  the  leaves  of  the  book  she  still  held 
in  her  hand ; in  doing  so,  she  saw  written  on  the  title-page, 
the  Earl  of  Cherbury.  Cherbury  ? repeated  she,  in  astonish- 
ment. 

“ Do  you  know  him  ? ’’  asked  Lord  Mortimer. 

‘‘  Not  personally ; but  I revere,  I esteem  him ; he  is  one  of 
the  best,  the  truest  friends,  my  father  ever  had.’’ 

‘‘  Oh,  how  happy,”  exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer,  would  his 
son  be,  were  he  capable  of  inspiring  you  with  such  sentiments 
as  y^u  avow  for  him.” 

His  son  ! ” repeated  Amanda,  in  a tone  of  surprise,  and 
looking  at  Lord  Mortimer. 

“ Yes,”  replied  he.  “ Is  it  then  possible,”  he  continued^ 
“ that  you  are  really  ignorant  of  his  being  my  father  ? ” 

Surprise  kept  her  silent  a few  minutes ; for  her  father  had 


ttTE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEK 


5^ 

never  given  her  any  account  of  the  earl’s  family,  till  about  th% 
period  he  thought  of  applying  to  him ; and  her  mind  was  so 
distracted  at  that  time  on  his  own  account,  that  she  scarcely 
understood  a word  he  uttered.  In  the  country  she  had  nevwr 
heard  Lord  Cherbury  mentioned ; for  Tudor  Hall  belonged 
not  to  him,  but  to  Lord  Mortimer,  to  whom  an  uncle  had  be- 
queathed it. 

‘•I  thought,  indeed,  my  lord,”  said  Amanda,  as  soon  as  she 
recovered  her  voice,  “ that  your  lordship’s  title  was  familiar  to 
me  ; though  why,  from  the  hurry  and  perplexity  in  which  par- 
ticular circumstances  involved  me,  I could  not  tell.” 

Oh,  suffer,”  cried  Lord  Mortimer,  with  one  of  his  most 
insinuating  smiles,  “ the  friendship  which  our  parents  feel  to 
be  continued  to  their  children  ; let  this,”  taking  her  soft  hand, 
and  pressing  his  lips  to  it,  be  the  pledge  of  amity  between 
us.”  He  now  inquired  when  the  intimacy  between  her  father 
and  his  had  commenced,  and  where  the  former  was.  But  from 
those  inquiries  Amanda  shrunk.  She  reflected,  that,  without 
her  father’s  permission,  she  had  no  right  to  answer  them ; and 
that,  in  a situation  like  his  and  hers,  too  much  caution  could 
not  be  observed.  Besides,  both  pride  and  delicacy  made  hex 
solicitous  at  present  to  conceal  her  father’s  real  situation  from 
Lord  Mortimer:  she  could  not  bear  to  think  it  should  be 
known  his  sole  dependence  was  on  Lord  Cherbury,  uncertain 
as  it  was,  whether  that  nobleman  would  ever  answer  his  ex- 
pectations. She  repented  having  ever  dropped  a hint  of  the 
intimacy  subsisting  between  them,  which  surprise  alone  had 
made  her  do,  and  tried  to  waive  the  subject.  In  this  design 
Lord  Mortimer  assisted  her ; for  he  had  too  much  penetration 
not  instantly  to  perceive  it  confused  and  distressed  her.  He 
requested  permission  to  renew  his  visit,  but  Amanda,  though 
well  inclined  to  grant  his  request,  yielded  to  prudence  instead 
of  inclination,  and  begged  he  would  excuse  her ; the  seeming 
disparity  (she  could  not  help  saying)  in  their  situations,  would 
render  it  very  imprudent  ir  her  to  receive  such  visits ; she 
blushed,  half  sighed,  and  bent  her  eyes  to  the  ground  as  she 
spoke.  Lord  Mortimer  continued  to  entreat,  but  she  was 
steady  in  refusing ; he  would  not  depart,  however,  till  he  had 
obtained  permission  to  attend  her  in  the  evening  to  a part  of 
Tudor  Grove  which  she  had  never  yet  seen,  and  he  described 
as  particularly  beautiful.  He  wanted  to  call  for  her  at  the 
appointed  hour,  but  she  would  not  suffer  this,  and  he  was  com- 
pelled to  be  contented  with  leave  to  meet  her  near  the  cottag^ 
when  it  came.  ' 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Si 

With  a beating  heart  she  kept  her  appointment,  and  found  his 
lordship  not  many  yards  distant  from  the  cottage,  impatiently 
waiting  her  approach.  A brighter  bloom  than  usual  glowed^ 
upon  her  cheek  as  she  listened  to  his  ardent  expressions  of 
admiration  ; yet  not  to  such  expressions,  which  would  soon 
have  sated  an  ear  of  delicacy  like  Amanda’s,  did  Lord  Mortimer 
confine  himself ; he  conversed  on  various  subjects ; and  the 
eloquence  of  his  language,  the  liveliness  of  his  imagination,  and 
the  justness  of  his  remarks,  equally  amused  and  interested  his 
fair  companion.  There  was,  indeed,  in  the  disposition  and. 
manners  of  Lord  Mortimer  that  happy  mixture  of  animation  and 
softness  which  at  once  amuses  the  fancy  and  attracts  the  heart ; 
and  never  had  Amanda  experienced  such  minutes  as  she  now 
passed  with  him,  so  delightful  in  their  progress,  so  rapid  in 
their  course.  On  entering  the  walk  he  had  mentioned  to  her, 
she  saw  he  had  not  exaggerated  its  beauties.  After  passing 
through  many  long  and  shaded  alleys,  they  came  to  a smooth 
green  lawn,  about  which  the.  trees  rose  in  the  form  of  an  am- 
phitheatre, and  their  dark,  luxuriant,  and  checkered  shades 
proclaimed  that  amongst  them 

“ The  rude  axe,  with  heaved  stroke. 

Was  never  heard,  the  nymphs  to  daunt. 

Or  fright  them  from  their  hallowed  haunt.” — MiLTON. 

The  lawn  gently  sloped  to  a winding  stream,  so  clear  as  per- 
fectly to  reflect  the  beautiful  scenery  of  heaven,  now  glowing 
with  the  gold  and  purple  of  the  setting  sun,;  from  the  opposite 
bank  of  the  stream  rose  a stupendous  mountain,  diversified 
with  little  verdant  hills  and  dales,  and  skirted  with  a wild  shrub- 
bery", whose  blossoms  perfumed  the  air  with  the  most  balmy 
fragrance.  Lord  Mortimer  prevailed  on  Amanda  to  sit  down 
upon  a rustic  bench,  beneath  the  spreading  branches  of  an  oak, 
enwreathed  with  ivy ; here  they  had  not  sat  long,  ere  the 
silence,  which  reigned  around,  was  suddenly  interrupted  by 
strains,  at  once  low,  solemn,  and  melodious,  that  seemed  to 
creep  along  the  water,  till  they  had  reached  the  place  where 
they  sat;  and  then,  as  if  a Naiad  of  the  stream  had  left  her 
rushy  couch  to  do  them  homage,  they  swelled  by  degrees  into 
full  melody,  which  the  mountain  echoes  alternately  revived  and 
heightened.  It  appeared  like  enchantment  to  Amanda ; and 
her  eyes,  turned  to  Lord  Mortimer,  seemed  to  say,  it  was 
to  his  magic  it  was  owing.  After  enjoying  her  surprise  some 
minutes,  he  acknowledged  the  music  proceeded  from  twb 
servants  of  his,  who  played  on  the  clarinet  and  French  horn. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


52 

and  were  stationed  in  a dell  of  the  opposite  mountain.  Not- 
withstanding all  her  former  thoughts  to  the  contrary,  Amanda 
now  conceived  a strong  suspicion  that  Lord  Mortimer  was  really 
the  person  who  had  serenaded  her  ; that  she  conceived  pleasure 
from  the  idea,  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  ; she  had  reason  soon 
to  find  she  was  not  mistaken.  Lord  Mortimer  solicited  her  for 
the  Lady’s  song  in  Comus,  saying  the  present  situation  was 
peculiarly  adapted  to  it ; on  her  hesitating,  he  told  her  she  had 
no  plea  to  offer  for  not  complying,  as  he  himself  had  heard  hei 
enchanting  powers  in  it.  Amanda  started,  and  eagerly  inquired 
when  or  by  what  means.  It  was  too  late  for  his  lordship  to 
recede  ; and  he  not  only  confessed  his  concealment  near,  the 
music-room,  but  his  visit  to  her  window.  A soft  confusion, 
intermingled  with  pleasure,  pervaded  the  soul  of  Amanda  at 
this  confession  : and  it  was  some  time  ere  she  was  sufficiently 
composed  to  comply  with  Lord  Mortimer’s  solicitations  for  her 
to  sing  ; she  at  last  allowed  him  to  lead  her  to  the  centre  of  a 
little  rustic  bridge  thrown  over  the  stream,  from  whence  her 
voice  could  be  sufficiently  distinguished  for  the  music  to  keep 
time  to  it,  as  Lord  Mortimer  had  directed.  Her  plaintive  and 
harmonious  invocation,  answered  by  the  low  breathing  of  the 
clarinet,  wliich  appeared  like  the  softest  echo  of  ^^he  mountain, 
had  the  finest  effect  imaginable,  and  ‘‘  took  the  imprisoned 
soul,  and  wrapped  it  in  Elysium.” 

Lord  Mortimer,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  found  himself 
at  a loss  to  express  what  he  felt : he  conducted  her  back  to  the 
seat,  where,  to  her,  astonishment,  she  beheld  fruits,  ices,  and 
creams,  laid  out,  as  if  by  the  hand  of  magic,  for  no  mortal 
appeared  near  the  spot.  Dusky  twilight  now  warned  her  to 
return  home  ; but  Lord  Mortimer  would  not  suffer  her  to  depart 
till  she  had  partaken  of  this  collation. 

He  was  not  by  any  means  satisfied  with  the  idea  of  only 
beholding  her  for  an  hour  or  two  of  an  evening  ; and  when  they 
came  near  the  cottage,  desired  to  know  whether  it  was  to 
chance  alone  he  was  in  future  to  be  indebted  for  seemg  her. 
Again  he  entreated  permission  to  visit  her  sometimes  of  a 
morning,  promising  he  would  never  disturb  hei  .evocations,  but 
would  be  satisfied  merely  to  sit  and  read  »o  her,  whenever  she 
chose  to  work,  and  felt  herself  inclined  for  that  amusement  i 
Amanda’s  refusals  grew  fainter ; and  at  last  she  said,  on  the 
above-mentioned  conditions,  he  might  sometimes  come.  That 
he  availed  himself  of  this  permission,  is  scarcely  necessary  to 
say ; and  from  this  time  few  hours  passed  without  thc-ir  seeing 
each  other* 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


S3 


The  cold  resen^e  of  Amanda  by  degrees  wore  away  ; from 
her  knowledge  of  his  family  she  considered  him  as  more  than  a 
new  or  common  acquaintance.  The  emotions  she  felt  for  him, 
she  thought  sanctioned  by  that  knowledge,  and  the  gratitude 
she  felt  for  Lord  Cherbury  for  his  former  conduct  to  her  father, 
which  claimed,  she  thought,  her  respect  and  esteem  for  so  near 
and  valuable  a connection  of  his ; the  worth,  too,  she  could  not 
avoid  acknowledging  to  herself,  of  Lord  Mortimer,  would,  of 
itself  alone,  have  authorized  them.  Her  heart  felt  he  was  one 
of  the  most  amiable,  most  pleasing  of  men  ; she  could  scarcely 
disguise,  in  any  degree,  the  lively  pleasure  she  experienced  in 
his  society ; nay,  she  scarcely  thought  it  necessary  to  disguise 
it,  for  it  resulted  as  much  from  innocence  as  sensibility,  and 
was  placed  to  the  account  of  friendship.  But  Lord  Mortimer 
was  too  penetrating  not  soon  to  perceive  he  might  ascribe  it  to 
a softer  impulse  ; with  the  most  delicate  attention,  the  most 
tender  regard,  he  daily,  nay,  hourly,  insinuated  himself  into 
her  heart,  and  secured  for  himself  an  interest  in  it,  ere  she 
vvas  aware,  which  the  efforts  of  subsequent  resolution  could 
not  overcome.  He  was  the  companion  of  her  rambles,  the 
alleviator  of  her  griefs  ; the  care  which  so  often  . saddened  her 
brow  always  vanished  at  his  presence,  and  in  conversing  with 
him  she  forgot  every  cause  of  sorrow. 

He  once  or  twice  delicately  hinted  at  those  circumstances 
which  at  his  first  visit  she  had  mentioned,  as  sufficiently  distress- 
ing to  bewilder  her  recollection.  Amanda,  with  blushes,  always 
shrunk  from  the  subject,  sickening  at  the  idea  of  his  knowing 
that  her  father  depended  on  his  for  future  support.  If  he  ever 
addressed  her  seriously  on  the  subject  of  the  regard  he  professed 
for  her  (which,  from  his  attentions,  she  could  not  help  some- 
times flattering  herself  would  be  the  case),  then,  indeed,  there 
would  be  no  longer  room  for  concealment ; but,  except  such  a 
circumstance  took  place,  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  make 
any  humiliating  discovery. 

Tudor  Grove  was  the  favorite  scene  of  their  rambles  ; some- 
times she  allowed  him  to  lead  her  to  the  music-room ; but  as 
these  visits  were  not  frequent,  a lute  was  brought  from  it  to  the 
cottage,  and  in  the  recess  in  the  garden  she  often  sung  and 
played  for  the  enraptured  Mortimer;  there,  too,  he  frequently 
read  for  her,  always  selecting  some  elegant  and  pathetic  piece 
of  poetry,  to  which  the  harmony  of  his  voice  gave  additional 
charms  ; a voice,  which  sunk  into  the  heart  of  Amanda,  and 
interested  her  sensibility  even  more  than  the  subject  he  perused. 

Often  straying  to  the  valley’s  verge,  as  they  contemplated 


'?4 


rim  CHILDREN-  OE  THE  ABBEY. 


ttie  lovely  orospect  around,  only  bounded  by  distant  and  stu* 
pcndous  mountains,  Lord  Mortimer,  in  strains  of  eloquence 
would  describe  the  beautiful  scenes  and  extensive  landscapes 
beyond  them  ; and,  whenever  Amanda  expressed  a wish  (as  she 
sometimes  would  from  thoughtless  innocence)  of  viewing  them, 
he  would  softly  sigh,  and  wish  he  was  to  be  her  guide  to  them ; 
as  to  point  out  beauties  to  a refined  and  cultivated  mind  like 
hers,  would  be  to  him  the  greatest  pleasure  he  could  possibly 
experience.  Seated  sometimes  on  the  brow  of  a shrubby  hill, 
as  they  viewed  the  scattered  hamlets  beneath,  he  would  expati- 
ate on  the  pleasure  he  conceived  there  must  be  in  passing  a 
tranquil  life  with  one  lovely  and  beloved  object : his  insidious 
eyes,  turned  towards  Amanda,  at  these  minutes,  seemed  to  say, 
she  was  the  being  who  could  realize  all  the  ideas  he  entertained 
of  such  a life  ; and  when  he  asked  her  opinion  of  his  senti- 
ments, her  disordered  blushes,  and  faltering  accents,  too  plainly 
betrayed  her  conscious  feelings.  Every  delicacy  which  Tudor 
Hall  contained,  was  daily  sent  to  the  cottage,  notwithstanding 
Amanda’s  prohibition  to  the  contrary  ; and  sometimes  Lord 
Mortimer  was  permitted  to  dine  with  her  in  the  recess.  Three 
weeks  spent  in  this  familiar  manner,  endeared  and  attached 
them  to  each  other  more  than  months  would  have  done,  passi^d 
in  situations  liable  to  interruption. 


CHAPTER  VIL 

tf , - I.  — She  alone 

Heard,  felt,  and  seen,  possesses  every  thought. 

Fills  every  sense,  and  pants  in  every  v5in. 

Books  are  but  formal  dulness,  tedious  friends, 

And  sad  amid  the  social  band  he  sits. 

Lonely  and  unattentive.  From  his  tongue 
The  unfinished  period  falls,  while,  bore  away 
On  swelling  thoughts  his  wafted  spirit  flies 
To  the  vain  bosom  of  his  distant  fair.” — Thomson. 

Howel  was  no  stranger  to  the  manner  in  which  hours  roLea 
away  at  the  cottage  ; he  hovered  round  it,  and  seized  every  in-' 
terval  of  Lord  Mortimer’s  absence  to  present  himself  before 
Amanda ; his  emotions  betrayed  his  feelings,  and  Amanda 
effected  reserve  towards  him,  in  hopes  of  suppressing  his  pas- 
sion ; a passion,  she  now  began  to  think,  when  hopeless,  must 
be  dreadful. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


ss 

Hovvel  was  a prey  to  melancholy  ; but  not  for  himself  alone 
did  he  mourn ; fears  for  the  safety  and  happiness  ot  Amanda 
added  to  his  dejection  j he  dreaded  that  Lord  Mortimer,  per- 
haps, like  too  many  of  the  fashionable  men,  might  make  no 
scruple  of  availing  himself  of  any  advantage  which  could  be 
derived  from  a predilection  in  his  favor. 

He  knew  him,  it  is  true,  to  be  amiable ; but  in  opposition  to 
that,  he  knew  him  to  be  volatile,  and  sometimes  wild,  and 
trembled  for  the  unsuspecting  credulity  of  Amanda.  “ Though 
lost  to  me,’^  exclaimed  the  unhappy  young  man,  ‘^oh  never, 
sweetest  Amanda,  mayest  thou  be  lost  to  thyself  1 ’’ 

He  had  received  many  proofs  of  esteem  and  friendship  from 
Lord  Mc^rtimer ; he  therefore  studied  how  he  might  admonish 
without  offending,  and  save  Amanda  without  injuring  himself. 
It  at  last  occurred  to  him  that  the  pulpit  would  be  the  surest 
way  of  effecting  his  wishes,  where  the  subject,  addressed  to  all, 
might  particularly  strike  one  for  whom  it  was  intended,  with- 
out appearing  as  if  designed  for  that  purpose  ; and  timely  con- 
vince him,  if,  indeed,  he  meditated  any  injurious  design  against 
Amanda,  of  its  fiagrance. 

On  the  following  Sunday,  as  he  expected.  Lord  Mortimer 
and  Amanda  attended  service  ; his  lordship’s  pew  was  opposite 
the  one  she  sat  in,  and  we  fear  his  eyes  too  often  wondered  in 
that  direction. 

The  youthful  monitor  at  last  ascended  the  pulpit ; his  tex^ 
was  from  Jeremiah,  and  to  the  following  effect ; — 

“ She  weepeth  sore  in  the  night,  and  her  tears  are  on  her  cheeks ; 
among  all  her  lovers  she  hath  none  to  comfort  her;  all  her  friends  have 
dealt  treacherously  with  her,  they  are  become  her  enemies.” 

After  a slight  introduction,  in  which  he  regretted  that  the 
declension  of  moral  principles  demanded  such  an  exhortation 
as  he  was  about  to  give,  he  commenced  his  subject ; he  de- 
scribed a young  female,  adorned  with  beauty  and  innocence, 
walking  forward  in  the  path  of  integrity,  which  a virtuous  edu- 
cation had  early  marked  for  her  to  take,  and  rejoicing  as  she 
went  with  all  around  her;  when,  in  the  midst  of  happiness,  un- 
expected calamity  suddenly  surprised  and  precipitated  her  from 
prosperity  into  the  deepest  distress : he  described  the  beno 
fits  she  derived  in  this  trying  period  from  early  implanted  vir- 
tue and  religion  ; taught  by  them  (he  proceeded)  the  lovel5 
mourner  turns  not  to  the  world  for  consolation — no,  she  looks 
up  to  her  Creator  for  comfort,  whose  supporting  aid  is  so  par- 
ticularly promised  to  afflicted  worth.  Cheered  by  them,  she  is 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


56 

able  to  exert  her  little  talents  of  genius  and  taste,  and  draw 
upon  industry  for  her  future  support ; her  active  virtues,  he 
thinks  the  best  proof  of  submission  she  can  give  to  the  will  ol. 
Heaven  ; and  in  the  laudable  exertions  she  ^mds  a conscious 
peace,  which  the  mere  possession  of  fortuu^  could  never  be- 
stow. While  thus  employed,  a son  of  perfidy  sees  and  marks 
her  for  his  prey,  because  she  is  at  once  lovely  and  helpless  : 
her  unsuspecting  credulity  lays  her  open  to  his  arts,  and  his 
blandishments  by  degrees  allure  her  heart.  The  snare  which 
he  has  spread  at  last  involves  her ; with  the  inconstancy  of 
libertinism  he  soon  deserts  her ; and  again  is  she  plunged  into 
distress.  But  mark  the  difference  of  her  first  and  second  fall : 
conscience  no  longer  lends  its  opposing  aid  to  e^'^m  her  sorrow, 
despair  instead  of  hope  arises  ; without  one  i.xend  to  soothe 
the  pangs  of  death,  one  pitying  soul  to  whisper  peace  to  her 
departing  spirit  ; insulted,  too,  perhaps,  by  some  unfeeling 
being,  whom  want  of  similar  temptations  alone,  perhaps,  saved 
from  similar  imprudences,  she  sinks  an  early  victinv  to  wretch- 
edness. 

Howel  paused;  the  fulness  of  his  heart  mounted  to  his 
eyes,  which  involuntarily  turned  and  rested  up^n  Amanda. 
Interested  by  his  simple  and  pathetic  eloquence,  sh3  had  risen, 
and  leaned  over  the  pew,  her  head  resting  on  her  hand,  and 
her  eyes  fastened  on  his  face.  Lord  Mortimer  also  risen, 
and  alternately  gazed  upon  Hov/el  and  Amanoci,  particularly 
watching  the  latter,  to  see  how  the  subject  would  affect  her. 
He  at  last  saw  the  tears  trickling  down  her  cheeks  : the  dis- 
tresses of  her  own  situation,  and  the  stratagems  of  Belgrave, 
made  her,  in  some  respect,  perceive  a resemblance  between  her- 
self and  the  picture  Howel  had  drav/n.  Lord  Mortimer  was 
unutterably  affected  by  her  tears,  a faint  sicknrss  seized  him, 
he  sunk  upon  the  seat,  and  covered  his  face  wun  his  handker- 
chief, to  hide  his  emotion  ; but  by  the  time  service  was  over  it 
was  pretty  well  dissipated  : Amanda  returned  home,  and  his 
lordship  waited  for  Howel’s  coming  out  of  church.  “ What 
the  devil,  Howel,’’  said  he,  ‘‘  did  you  mean  by  giving  us  such 
an  exhortation  ? Have  you  discovered  any  affair  going  on  be- 
tween any  of  your  rustic  neighbors  ? ” The  parson  colored, 
but  remained  silent ; Lord  Mortimer  rallied  him  a little  more, 
and  then  departed ; but  his  gayety  was  only  assumed. 

On  his  first  acquaintance  with  Amanda,  in  consequence  of 
what  he  heard  from  Mrs.  Abergwilly,  and  observed  himself,  he 
had  been  tempted  to  think  she  was  involved  in  mystery : and 
what,  but  impropriety,  he  thought,  could  occasion  mystery.  To 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


57 


ftde  so  Jl^ung,  so  lovely,  so  elegant  a creature  an  inmate  .ot  a 
sequestered  cottage,  associating  with  people  (in  manners  at 
least)  so  infinitely  beneath  her  ; to  see  her  trembling  and 
blushing,  if  a word  was  dropped  that  seemed  tending  to  in- 
quire into  her  motives  for  retirement  \ all  these  circumstances, 
I say,  considered,  naturally  excited  a suspicion  injurious  to  her 
in  the  mind  of  Lord  Mortimer ; and  he  was  tempted  to  think 
some  deviation  from  prudence  had,  by  depriving  her  of  the 
favor  of  her  friends,  made  her  retire  to  obscurity  ; and  that  she 
would  not  dislike  an  opportunity  of  emerging  from  it,  he  could 
not  help  thinking.  In  consequence  of  these  ideas,  he  could  not 
think  himself  very  culpable  in  encouraging  the  wishes  her  love- 
liness gave  rise  to  ; besides,  he  had  some  reason  to  suspect  she 
desired  to  inspire  him  with  these  wishes ; for  Mrs.  Abergwilly 
told  him  she  had  informed  Mrs.  Edwin  of  his  arrival ; an  in- 
formation he  could  not  doubt  her  having  immediately  commu- 
nicated to  Amanda ; therefore  her  continuing  to  come  to  the 
hall  seemed  as  if  she  wished  to  throw  herself  in  his  way.  Mrs. 
Edwin  had  indeed  been  told  of  his  arrival,  but  concealed  it 
from  Amanda,  that  she  should  not  be  disappointed  of  going  to 
the  hall,  which  she  knew,  if  once  informed  of  it,  she  would  not 
go  to.^ 

’Tis  true.  Lord  Mortimer  saw  Amanda  wore  (at  least)  the 
semblance  of  innocence  : but  this  could  not  remove  his  sus- 
picions, so  often  had  he  seen  it  assumed  to  hide  the  artful 
stratagems  of  a depraved  heart. 

Ah  ! why  will  the  lovely  female,  adorned  with  all  that 
heaven  and  earth  can  bestow  to  render  her  amiable,  overleap 
the  modesty  of  nature,  and  by  levity  and  boldness  lose  all 
pretensions  to  the  esteem  which  would  otherwise  be  an  involun- 
tary tribute. 

Nor  is  it  herself  alone  she  injures  ; she  hurts  each  child  of 
purity,  helps  to  point  th^  sting  of  ridicule,  and  weave  the  web 
of  art. 

We  shun  the  blazing  sun,  but  court  his  tempered  beams  ; 
the  rose,  which  glares  upon  the  day,  is  never  so  much  sought 
as  the  bud  enwrapt  in  the  foliage  ; and,  to  use  the  expression 
of  a late  much-admired  author,  The  retiring  graces  have  ever 
been  reckoned  the  most  beautiful.’’ 

He  had  never  heard  the  earl  mention  a person  of  the  name 
of  Dunford  ; and  he  knew  not,  or  rather  suspected,  little  credit 
was  to  be  given  to  her  assertion  of  an  intimacy  between  them, 
particularly  as  he  saw  her,  whenever  the  subject  was  mentioned, 
shrinking  from  it  in  the  greatest  confusion 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


S3 

Her  reserve  he  imputed  to  pretence  ; and  flattering  himself 
it  would  soon  wear  off,  determined  for  the  present  at  least  to 
humor  her  affectation. 

With  such  ideas,  such  sentiments,  had  Lord  Mortimer’s 
first  visits  to  Amanda  commenced  : but  they  experienced  an 
immediate  change  as  the  decreasing  reserve  of  her  manners 
gave  him  greater  and  more  frequent  opportunities  of  discover^ 
ing  her  mental  perfections  ; the  strength  of  her  understanding, 
the  justness  of  her  remarks,  the  liveliness  of  her  fancy,  above 
all,  the  purity  which  mingled  in  every  sentiment,  and  the  mod- 
esty  which  accompanied  every  word,  filled  him  with  delight  and 
amazement;  his  doubts  gradually  lessened,  and  at  last  vanished, 
and  with  them  every  design,  which  they  alone  had  ever  giveri 
rise  to.  Esteem  was  now  united  to  love,  and  real  respecr  to 
admiration : in  her  society  he  only  was  happy,  and  thoughc  not, 
or  rather  would  not  suffer  himself  to  think,  on  the  consequences 
of  such  an  attachment.  It  might  be  said,  he  was  entranced 
in  pleasure,  from  which  Hov/el  completely  roused  him,  and 
made  him  seriously  ask  his  heart,  what  were  his  intentions  rela- 
tive to  Amanda.  Of  such  views  as  he  perceived  Howel  sus- 
pected him  of  harboring,  his  conscience  entirely  acquitted  him ; 
yet  so  great  were  the  obstacles  he  Icnew  in  the  way  of  an  union 
between  him  and  Amanda,  that  he  almost  regvetted  (as  every 
one  does,  who  acts  against  their  better  judgment,)  that  he  had 
not  fled  at  the  first  intimation  of  his  danger.  So  truly  formi- 
dable indeed  did  these  obstacles  appear,  that  he  at  times 
resolved  to  break  with  Amanda,  if  he  could  nx  upon  any  plan 
for  doing  so,  without  injuring  his  honor,  after  the  great  atten- 
tion he  had  paid  her. 

Ere  he  came  to  any  final  determination,  however,  he  resolved 
to  try  and  discover  her  real  situation  : if  he  even  left  her,  it 
would  be  a satisfaction  to  his  heart  to  know  whether  his  friend- 
ship could  be  serviceable  : and  if  an  opposite  measure  was  his 
plan,  it  could  never  be  put  in  execution  without  the  desired  in- 
formation. He  accordingly  wrote  to  his  sister.  Lady  Araminta 
Dormer,  who  was  then  in  the  country  with  Lord  Cherbury, 
requesting  she  would  inquire  from  his  father  whether  he  knew 
a person  of  the  name  of  Dunford  ; and  if  he  did,  what  his 
situation  and  family  were.  Lord  Mortimer  begged  her  lady- 
ship not  to  mention  the  inquiries  being  dictated  by  him,  and 
promised  at  some  future  period  to  explain  the  reason  of  them. 
He  still  continued  his  assiduities  to  Amanda,  and  at  the 
expected  time  received  an  answer  to  his  letter;  but  how  was 
he  shocked  and  alarmed,  when  informed,  Lord  Cherbury  never 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  A BEET. 


S9 

knew  a person  of  the  name  of  Dunford  ! His  doubts  began  to 
revive  ; but  before  he  yielded  entirely  to  them,  he  resolved  to 
go  to  Amanda,  and  inquire  from  her,  in  the  most  explicit  terms, 
how,  and  at  what  time,  her  father  and  the  Earl  had  become 
acquainted ; determined,  if  she  answered  him  without  embar- 
rassment, to  mention  to  his  sister  whatever  circumstances  she 
related,  lest  a forgetfulness  of  them  alone  had  made  the  Earl 
deny  his  knowledge  of  Dunford.  Just  as  he  was  quitting  the 
grove  with  this  intent,  he  espied  Edwin  and  his  wife  coming 
down  a cross-road  from  the  village,  where  they  had  been  with 
poultry  and  vegetables.  It  instantly  occurred  to  him  that  these 
people,  in  the  simplicity  of  their  hearts,  might  unfold  the  real 
situation  of  Amanda,  and  save  him  the  painful  necessity  of 
making  inquiries,  which  she,  perhaps,  would  not  answer,  with- 
out his  real  motives  for  making  them  were  assigned,  which  was 
what  he  could  not  think  of  doing. 

Instead,  therefore,  of  proceeding,  he  stopped  till  they  came 
up  to  him,  and  then  with  the  most  engaging  affability  addressed 
them,  inquiring  whether  they  had  been  successful  in  the  dis- 
posal of  their  goods."  They  answered  bowing  and  curtseying, 
and  he  then  insisted  that,  as  they  appeared  tired,  they  should 
repair  to  the  hall,  and  rest  themselves.  This  was  too  great  an 
honor  to  be  refused  ; and  they  followed  their  noble  conductor, 
who  hastened  forward  to  order  refreshment  into  a parlor  for 
them.  The  nurse,  who  in  her  own  way  was  a cunning  woman, 
instantly  suspected,  from  the  great  and  uncomrnon  attention  of 
Lord  Mortimer,  that  he  wanted  to  inquire  into  the  situation  of 
Amanda.  As  soon  as  she  saw  him  at  some  distance,  David,” 
cried  she,  as  sure  as  eggs  are  eggs,”  (unpinning  her  white 
apron,  and  smoothing  it  nicely  down  as  she  spoke,)  “ this  young 
lort  wants  to  have  our  company,  that  he  may  find  out  some- 
thing apout  Miss  Amanda.  Ah,pless  her  pretty  face,  I thought 
how  it  would  be  ; but  we  must  be  as  cunning  as  foxes,  and  not 
tell  too  much  nor  too  little,  because  if  we  told  too  much  it 
would  offend  her,  and  she  would  ask  us  how  we  got  all  our  in- 
telligence, and  would  not  think  us  over  and  above  genteel,  when 
she  heard  we  had  sifted  Jemmy  Hawthorn  for  it,  when  he  came 
down  from  London  with  her.  All  we  must  do  is  just  to  drop 
some  hints,  as  it  were,  of  her  situation,  and  then  his  lortship, 
10  be  sure,  will  make  his  advantage  of  them,  and  ask  her  every- 
thing apout  herself,  and  then  she  will  tell  him  of  her  own 
accord : so,  David,  mind  what  you  say,  I charge  you.”  Ay, 
cried  David,  “ leave  me  alone ; I’ll  warrant  you  you’ll 
Always  find  an  old  soldier  ’cute  enough  for  anypoty.” 


6o 


THE  CHILD  RE  A OF  THE  ABBEY. 


When  they  reached  the  hall,  they  were  shown  into  a parlor, 
where  Lord  Mortimer  was  expecting  them : with  difficulty  he 
made  them  sit  down  at  the  table,  where  meat  and  wine  were 
laid  out  for  them.  After  they  had  partaken  of  them,  Lord 
Mortimer  began  with  asking  Edwin  some  questions  about  his 
farm  (for  he  was  a tenant  on  the  Tudor  estate),  and  whether 
there  was  anything  wanting  to  render  it  more  comfortable. 
‘‘No,’’  Edwin  replied,  with  a low  bow,  thanking  his  honorable 
lordship  for  his  inquiry.  Lord  Mortimer  spoke  of  his  family. 
“Ay,  Cot  pless  the  poor  things,”  Edwin  said,  “they  were,  to 
be  sure,  a fine  thriving  set  of  children.”  Still  Lord  Mortimer 
had  not  touched  on  the  subject  nearest  his  heart.  He  felt 
embarrassed  and  agitated.  At  last,  with  as  much  composure  as 
he  could  assume,  he  asked  how  long  they  imagined  Miss  Dun- 
ford  would  stay  with  them.  Now  was  the  nurse’s  time  to  speak. 
She  had  hitherto  sat  simpering  and  bowing.  “ That  depended 
on  circumstances,”  she  said.  “ Poor  tear  young  laty,  though 
their  little  cottage  was  so  obscure,  and  so  unlike  anything  she 
had  before  been  accustomed  to,  she  made  herself  quite  happy 
with  it.”  “ Her  father  must  miss  her  society  very  much,”  ex- 
claimed Lord  Mortimer.  “Tear  heart,  to  be  sure  he  does,” 
cried  nurse.  “ Well,  strange  things  happen  every  tay  ; but 
still  I never  thought  what  did  happen  would  have  happened,  to 
make  the  poor  old  gentleman  and  his  daughter  part.”  “ What 
happened  I ” exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer,  starting  and  suddenly 
stopping  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  for  hitherto  he  had  been 
walking  backwards  and  forwards.  “ ’Twas  not  her  business,” 
the  nurse  replied,  “ by  no  manner  of  means,  to  be  speaking 
about  the  affairs  of  her  petters  ; put  for  all  that  she  could  not 
help  saying,  because,  she  thought  it  a pity  his  lortship,  who  was 
so  good  and  so  affable,  should  remain  in  ignorance  of  every- 
thing ; that  Miss  Amanda  was  not  what  she  appeared  to  be ; 
no,  if  the  truth  was  told,  not  the  person  she  passed  for  at  ail  ; 
but,  Lort,  she  would  never  forgive  me,”  cried  the  nurse,  “ if 
your  lortship  told  her  it  was  from  me  your  lortship  heard  this. 
Poor  tear  thing,  she  is  very  unwilling  to  have  her  situation 
known,  though  she  is  not  the  first  poty  who  has  met  with  a pad 
man ; and  shame  and  sorrow  be  upon  him  who  tistrest  herself 
and  her  father.” 

Lord  Mortimer  had  heard  enough  : every  doubt,  every 
suspicion  was  realized  ; and  he  was  equally  unable  and  unwill- 
ing to  inquire  further,  v^as  pla.m  Amanda  was  unworthy  of 
his  esteem  ; and  to  inquire  into  the  circumstances  which 
occasioned  that  unworthiness,  would  only  have  tortured  hinv 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


6f 


Me  rung:  the  bell  abruptly,  and  ordering  Mrs.  Abergwilly  to 
attend  the  Edwins,  withdrew  immediately  to  another  room. 
Now  there  was  an  opportunity  for  Lord  Mortimer  to  break 
with  Amanda,  without  the  smallest  imputation  on  his  honor. 
Did  it  give  him  pleasure  ? No  : it  filled  him  with  sorrow,  dis- 
appointment, and  anguish  : the  softness  of  her  manners,  even 
more  than  the  beauty  of  her  person,  had  fascinated  his  soul, 
and  made  him  determine,  if  he  found  her  worthy  (of  which 
indeed  he  had  then  but  little  doubt)  to  cease  not,  till  every 
obstacle  which  could  impede  their  union  should  be  overcome. 
He  was  inspired  with  indignation  at  the  idea  of  the  snare  he 
imagined  she  had  spread  for  him ; thinking  her  modesty  all  a 
pretext  to  draw  him  into  making  honorable  proposals.  As  she 
sunk  in  his  esteem,  her  charms  lessened  in  his  fancy ; and  he 
thought  it  would  be  a proper  punishment  for  her,  and  a noble 
triumph  over  himself,  if  he  conquered,  or  at  least  resisted  his 
passion,  and  forsook  her  entirely.  Full  of  this  idea,  and  in- 
fluenced by  resentment  for  her  supposed  deceit,  he  resolved, 
without  longer  delay,  to  fulfil  the  purpose  which  had  brought 
him  into  Wales,  namely,  visiting  his  friend ; but  how  frail  is 
resolution  and  resentment  when  opposed  to  tenderness  1 With 
out  suffering  himself  to  believe  there  was  the  least  abatement 
of  either  in  his  mind,  he  forbid  the  carriage,  in  a few  minutes 
after  he  had  ordered  it,  merely,  he  persuaded  himself,  for  the 
purpose  of  yet  more  severely  mortifying  Amanda  : as  his  con- 
tinuing a little  longer  in  the  neighborhood,  without  noticing  her, 
might,  perhaps,  convince  her,  she  was  not  quite  so  fascinating 
as  she  believed  herself  to  be.  From  the  time  his  residence  at 
Tudor  Hall  was  known,  he  had  received  constant  invitations 
from  the  surrounding  families,  which,  on  Amanda’s  account,  he 
uniformly  declined.  This  he  resolved  should  no  longer  be  the 
case  : some  were  yet  unanswered,  and  these  he  meant  to  accept, 
as  means  indeed  of  keeping  him  steady  in  his  resolution  of  not 
seeing  her,  and  banishing  her  in  some  degree  from  his  thoughts. 
But  he  could  not  have  fixed  on  worse  methods  than  these  for 
effecting  either  of  his  purposes  : the  society  he  now  mixed 
among  was  so  different  from  that  he  had  lately  been  accustomed 
to  that  he  was  continually  employed  in  drawing  comparisons 
between  them.  He  grew  restless  ; his  unhappiness  increased ; 
and  he  at  last  felt,  that  if  he  desired  to  experience  any  comfort, 
he  must  no  longer  absent  himself  from  Amanda;  and  also  that, 
if  she  refused  to  accede  to  the  only  proposals  now  in  his  power 
to  make  her,  he  would  be  miserable ; so  essential  did  he  deem 
her  society  to  his  happiness ; so  much  was  he  attached  from 


62 


THE  CHILDREH  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


the  softness  and  sweetness  of  her  manners.  At  the  time  he 
finally  determined  to  see  her  again,  he  was  in  a large  party  at 
a Welsh  baronet’s  where  he  had  dined  ; and  on  the  rack  of 
impatience  to  put  his  determination  in  practice,  he  retired  early, 
and  took  the  road  to  the  cottage. 

Poor  Amanda,  during  this  time,  was  a prey  to  disquietude  : 
the  first  day  of  Lord  Mortimer’s  absence,  she  felt  a little  un- 
easiness, but  strove  to  dissipate  it,  by  thinking  business  had 
detained  him.  The  next  morning  she  remained  entirely  at 
home,  every  moment  expecting  to  behold  him  ; but  this  expec- 
tation was  totally  destroyed,  when  from  the  outside  roorri  she 
heard  one  of  the  nurse’s  sons  tell  of  all  the  company  he  had 
met  going  to  Sir  Lewis  ap  Shenkin’s,  and  amongst  the  rest 
Lord  Mortimer,  whose’  servants  had  told  him,  the  day  before 
their  lord  dined  at  Mr.  Jones’s,  where  there  was  a deal  of  com- 
pany, and  a grand  ball  in  the  evening.  Amanda’s  heart  almost 
died  within  her  at  these  words ; pleasure  then,  not  business, 
had  prevented  Lord  Mortimer  from  coming  to  her  ; these 
amusements  which  he  had  so  often  declared  vi-^.re  tasteless  to 
him,  from  the  superior  delight  he  experienced  in  her  society. 
Either  he  was  insincere  in  such  expressions,  or  l.ad  now  grown 
indifferent.  She  condemned  herself  for  ever  having  permitted 
his  visits,  or  received  his  assiduities  ; she  reproached  him  for 
ever  having  paid  those  assiduities,  knowing,  as  he  must,  the 
insincerity  or  inconstancy  of  his  nature.  In  spite  of  wounded 
pride,  tears  of  sorrow  and  disappointment  burst  from  her ; and 
her  only  consolation  was,  that  no  one  observed  her.  Her 
hours  passed  heavily  away  ; she  could  not  attend  to  anything ; 
and  in  the  evening  walked  out  to  indulge,  in  a lonely  ramble, 
the  dejection  of  her  heart:  she  turned  from  Tudor  Hall,  and 
took  (without  knowing  it  indeed)  the  very  road  which  led  to  the 
house  where  Lord  Mortimer  had  dined.  With  slow  and  pen- 
sive steps  she  pursued  her  way,  regardless  of  all  around  her, 
till  an  approaching  footstep  made  her  raise  her  eyes,  and  she 
beheld,  with  equal  surprise  and  confusion,  the  very  object  who 
was  then  employing  her  thoughts.  Obeying  the  impulse  oi 
pride,  she  hastily  turned  away ; till,  recollecting  that  her  pre 
cipitately  avoiding  him  would  at  once  betray  her  sentiments; 
she  paused  to  listen  to  his  passionate  inquiries  after  her  health ; 
having  answered  them  with,  .involuntary  coldness,  she-  again 
moved  on  ; but  her  progress  was  soon  stopped  by  Lord  Morti- 
mer ; snatching  her  hand,  he  insisted  on  knowing  why  she 
appeared  so  desirous  to  avoid  him.  Amanda  made  no  reply  to 
this,  but  desired  he  would  let  her  go*  Never,”  he  exclaimed^ 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


*•  till  you  wear  another  face  to  me.  Oh ! did  you  know  the 
pain  I have  suffered  since  last  we  met,  you  would  from  pity,  I 
am  sure,  treat  me  with  less  coldness.’’  Amanda’s  heart  throb- 
bed with  sudden  pleasure  ; but  she  soon  silenced  its  emotion, 
by  reflecting  that  a declaration  of  uneasiness,  at  the  very  time 
he  was  entering  into  gayety,  had  something  too  inconsistent  in 
it  to  merit  credit.  Hurt  by  supposing  he  wanted  to  impose  on 
her,  she  made  yet  more  violent  efforts  to  disengage  her  hand 
but  Lord  Mortimer  held  it  too  firmly  for  her  to  be  successful ; 
he  saw  she  was  offended,  and  it  gave  him  flattering  ideas  of 
the  estimation  in  which  he  stood  with  her,  since  to  resent  his 
neglect  was  the  most  convincing  proof  he  could  receive  of  the 
value  she  set  upon  his  attention.  Without  hurting  her  feelings 
by  a hint,  that  he  believed  the  alteration  in  her  manner  occa- 
sioned his  absence,  in  indirect  terms  he  apologized  for  it,  sa) . 
ing  what  indeed  was  partly  true,  that  a letter  lately  received 
had  so  ruffled  his  mind  he  was  quite  unfit  for  her  society,  and 
had  therefore  availed  himself  of  those  hours  of  chagrin  and 
uneasiness  to  accept  invitations,  which  at  some  time  or  other 
he  must  have  done,  to  avoid  giving  offence  ; and  by  acting  as 
he  had  done,  he  reserved  the  precious  moments  of  returning 
tranquillity  for  her  he  adored.  Ah ! how  readily  do  we  receive 
any  apology,  do  we  admit  of  any  excuse,  that  comes  from  a 
beloved  object ! Amanda  felt  as  if  a weight  was  suddenly  re- 
moved from  her  heart ; her  eyes  were  no  longer  bent  to  the 
earth,  her  cheek  no  longer  pale  ; and  a smile,  the  smile  of  in- 
nocence and  love,  enlivened  all  her  features.  She  seemed 
suddenly  to  forget  her  hand  was  detained  by  Lord  Mortimer, 
for  no  longer  did  she  attempt  to  free  it ; she  suffered  him 
gently  to  draw  it  within  his,  and  lead  her  to  the  favorite  haun^ 
in  Tudor  Grove. 

Pleased,  yet  blushing  and  confused,  she  heard  Lord  Morri- 
mer,  with  more  energy  than  he  had  ever  yet  expressed  himself 
with,  declare  the  pain,  he  suffered  the  days  he  saw  her  not. 
From  his  ardent,  his  passionate  expressions,  what  could  the  in- 
nocent Amanda  infer,  but  that  he  intended,  by  uniting  his  des- 
tiny to  hers,  to  secure  to  himself  a society  he  so  highly  valued; 
what  could  she  infer,  but  that  he  meant  immediately  to  speak 
in  explicit  terms  1 The  idea  was  too  pleasing  to  be  received  in 
tranquillity,  and  her  whole  soul  felt  agitated.  While  they  pur- 
sued their  way  through  Tudor  Grove,  the  sky,  which  had  been 
lowering  the  whole  day,  became  suddenly  more  darkened,  and 
by  its  increasing  gloom  foretold  an  approaching  storm.  Lord 
Mortimer  no  longer  opposed  Amanda’s  returning  home ; but 


THE  CHILD  RE  H OF  THE  ABBEY. 


64 

scarcely  had  they  turned  for  that  purpose,  ere  the  vivid  light 
ning  flashed  across  their  path,  and  the  thunder  awfully  rever* 
berated  amongst  the  hills.  The  hall  was  much  nearer  than  the 
cottage,  and  Lord  Mortimer,  throwing  his  arm  round  Amanda’s 
waist,  hurried  her  to  it  ; but  ere  they  reached  the  library, 
whose  door  was  the  first  they  came  to,  the  rain  began  pouring 
with  violence.  Lord  Mortimer  snatched  off  Amanda’s  wet  hat 
and  cloak ; the  rest  of  her  clothes  were  quite  dry ; and  imme- 
diately ordered  tea  and  coffee,  as  she  refused  any  other  refresh- 
ments : he  dismissed  the  attendants,  that  he  might,  without 
observation  or  restraint,  enjoy  her  society.  As  she  presided  at 
the  tea-table,  his  eyes,  with  the  fondest  rapture,  were  fastened 
on  her  face,  which  never  had  appeared  more  lovely  ; exercise 
had  heightened  the  pale  tint  of  her  cheek,  over  which  her 
glossy  hair  curled  in  beautiful  disorder  ; the  unusual  glow  gave 
a greater  radiance  to  her  eyes,  whose  soft  confusion  denoted 
the  pleasure  she  experienced  from  the  attention  of  Lord  Morti- 
mer. He  restrained  not,  he  could  not  restrain,  the  feelings  of 
his  soul.  ‘‘Oh,  what  happiness  !”  he  exclaimed.  “No  won- 
der I found  all  society  tasteless,  after  having  experienced  yours. 
Where  could  I find  such  softness,  yet  such  sensibility  ; such 
sweetness,  yet  such  animation  ; such  beauty,  yet  such  apparent 
u iconsciousness  of  it  ? Oh,  my  Amanda,  smoothly  must  thai 
life  glide  on,  whose  destiny  you  shall  share  1 ’* 

Amanda  endeavored  to  check  these  transports,  yet  secretly 
they  filled  her  with  delight,  for  she  considered  them  as  the  sin- 
cere effusions  of  honorable  love.  Present  happiness,  however, 
could  not  render  her  forgetful  of  propriety : by  the  time  tea 
was  over,  the  evening  began  to  clear,  and  she  protested 
she  must  depart.  Lord  Mortimer  protested  against  this 
for  some  time  longer,  and  at  last  brought  her  to  the  window, 
to  convince  her  there  was  still  a slight  rain  falling.  He 
promised  to  see  her  home  as  soon  as  it  was  over,  and  entreated, 
in  the  mean  time,  she  would  gratify  him  with  a song.  Amanda 
did  not  refuse ; but  the  raptures  he  expressed,  while  she  sung, 
she  thought  too  violent,  and  rose  from  the  piano  when  she  had 
concluded,  in  spite  of  his  entreaties  to  the  contrary.  She  in- 
sisted on  getting  her  hat  and  cloak,  which  had  been  sent  to 
Mrs.  Abergwilly  to  dry  : Xord  Mortimer  at  last  reluctantly 
went  out  to  obey  her. 

Amanda  walked  to  the  window : the  prospect  from  it  was 
lovely  ; the  evening  was  now  perfectly  serene  ; a few  light 
clouds  alone  floated  in  the  sky,  their  lucid  skirts  tinged  with 
purple  rays  from  the  declining  sun ; the  trees  wore  a brightei 


77/^  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY,  . gg 

'green,  and  the  dewdrop  that  had  heightened  their  verdure,  yet 
glittered  on  their  sprays  ; across  a distant  valley  was  extende\l 
a beautiful  rainbow,  the  sacred  record  of  Heaven’s  covenant 
with  man.  All  nature  appeared  revived  and  animated  ; the: 
birds  now  warbled  their  closing  lays,  and  the  bleating  of  the; 
cattle  was  heard  from  the  neighboring  hills.  “ Oh  ! how  sweet, 
how  lovely  is  the  dewy  landscape  I ” exclaimed  Amanda,  with, 
that  delight  which  scenes  of  calm  and  vernal  nature  never  fail 
of  raising  in  minds  of  piety  and  tenderness. 

’Tis  lovely,  indeed  ! ” repeated  Lord  Mortimer,  who  re- 
turned at  the  moment,  assuring  her  the  things  would  be  sent  in 
directl}^  I admire  the  prospect,”  continued  he,  because 
you  gaze  upon  it  with  me ; were  you  absent,  like  every  other 
charm,  it  would  lose  its  beauty,  and  become  tasteless  to  me. 
Tell  me,”  cried  he,  gently  encircling  her  waist,  why  this 
hurry,  why  this  wish  to  leave  me  ? Do  you  expect  elsewhere  to 
meet  with  a being  who  will  value  your  society  more  highly  than 
I do  ? Do  you  expect  to  meet  with  a heart  more  fondly,  more 
firmly  attached  to  you  than  mine  ? Oh,  my  Amanda,  if  you  do, 
how  mistaken  are  such  expectations  I ” 

Amanda  blushed,  and  averted  her  head,  unable  to  speak. 

“ Ah,  why,”  continued  he,  pursuing  her  averted  eyes  with 
his,  should  we  create  uneasiness  to  ourselves,  by  again  sep* 
arating  ? ” 

Amanda  looked  up  at  these  words  with  involuntary  surprise 
in  her  countenance.  Lord  Mortimer  understood  it:  he  saw 
she  had  hitherto  deluded  herself  with  thinking  his  intentions 
towards  her  very  different  from  what  they  really  were  ; to  suffer 
her  longer  to  deceive  herself  would,  he  thought,  be  cruelty. 
Straining  her  to  his  beating  heart,  he  imprinted  a kiss  on  her 
tremulous  lips,  and  softly  told  her,  that  the  life,  which  without 
her  would  lose  half  its  charms,  should  be  devoted  to  her  ser- 
vice ; and  that  his  fortune,  like  his  heart,  should  be  in  her  pos- 
session. Trembling  while  she  struggled  to  free  herself  from  his 
arms,  Amanda  demanded  what  he  meant ; her  manner  some- 
what surprised  and  confused  him  ; but  recollecting  this  was  the 
moment  for  explanation,  he,  though  with  half-averted  eyes,  de- 
clared his  hopes — his  wishes  and  intentions.  Surprise — horror 
— and  indignation,  for  a few  minutes  overpowered  Amanda ; 
but  suddenly  recovering  her  scattered  senses,  with  a strength 
greater  than  she  had  ever  before  felt,  she  burst  from  him,  and 
attempted  to  rush  from  the  room.  Lord  Mortimer  caught  hold 
of  her.  “ Whither  are  you  going,  Amanda  ? ” exclaimed  he, 
a'T'^i^ted  by  her  mau.uer. 


66 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


From  the  basest  of  men/’  cried  she,  struggling  tG.  disen- 
gage herself. 

He  shut  the  door,  and  forced  her  back  to  a chair : he  was 
shocked — amazed — and  confounded  by  her  looks  : no  art  could 
have  assumed  such  a semblance  of  sorrow  as  she  now  wore  ; no 
feelings  but  those  of  the  most  delicate  nature,  have  expressed 
such  emotion  as  she  now  betrayed  ; the  enlivening  bloom  of 
her  cheeks  was  fled,  and  succeeded  by  a deadly  paleness ; and 
her  soft  eyes,  robbed  of  their  lustre,  were  bent  to  the  ground 
with  the  deepest  expression  of  woe.  Lord  Mortimer  began  to 
think  he  had  mistaken,  if  not  her  character,  her  disposition ; and 
the  idea  of  having  insulted  either  purity  or  penitence,  was  like 
a dagger  to  his  heart.  “Oh,  my  love  ! ” he  exclaimed,  laying 
his  hand  on  her  trembling  one,  “ what  do  you  mean  by  depart- 
ing so  abruptly  ? ” 

“ My  meaning,  my  lord,’’  cried  she,  rising  and  shaking  his 
hand  from  hers,  “ is  now'  as  obvious  as  your  own — I seek,  for- 
ever, to  quit  a man  who,  under  the  appearance  of  delicate  at- 
tention, meditated  so  base  a scheme  against  me.  My  credulity 
may  have  yielded  you  amusement,  but  it  has  afforded  you  no 
triumph  : the  tenderness  which  I know  you  think,  which  I shall 
not  deny  your  having  inspired  me  with,  as  it  was  excited  by 
imaginary  virtues,  so  it  vanished  with  the  illusion  which  gave  it 
birth  ; what  then  was  innocent,  would  now  be  guilty.  Oh, 
heavens  ! ” continued  Amanda,  clasping  her  hands  together  in 
a sudden  agony  of  tears,  “ is  it  me,  the  helpless  child  of  sorrow, 
Lord  Mortimer  sought  as  a victim  to  illicit  love  ! Is  it  the  son 
of  Lord  Cherbury  destined  such  a blow  against  the  unfortunate 
Fitzalan  ? ” 

Lord  Mortimer  started.  “ Fitzalan  ! ” repeated  he.  “ Oh  I 
Amanda,  why  did  you  conceal  your  real  name  ? And  what  am 
I to  infer  from  your  having  done  so  ? ” 

“ What  you  please,  my  lord,”  cried  she.  ‘‘  The  opinion  of 
a person  I despise  can  be  of  little  consequence  to  me  ; yet,” 
continued  she,  as  if  suddenly  recollecting  herself,  “ that  you 
have  no  plea  for  extenuating  your  conduct,  know  that  my  name 
was  concealed  by  the  desire  of  my  father,  who,  involved  in  un- 
expected distress,  wished  me  to  adopt  another,  till  his  affairs 
were  settled.” 

“This  concealment  has  undone  me, exclaimed  Lord  Mor- 
timer: “it  has  led  me  into  an  error,  I sUal'l  never  cease  repent- 
ing. Oh ! Amanda,  deign  to  listen  to  tlie  ciircum stances  which 
occasioned  this  error  ; and  you  will  the.i,  1 am  sure,  think  me 
at  least  less  culpable  than  1 now  appear  to  be ; you  will  then, 
perhaps,  allow  me  to  make  some  atonement.” 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  67 

*^No,  my  Icfrd,’^  cried  Amanda,  ‘‘willingly  I will  not  allow 
myself  to  be  deceived  : for  without  deceit,  I am  convinced  you 
could  mention  no  circumstance  which  could  possibly  palliate 
your  conduct,  or  what  you  so  gently  term  an  error.  Had  I,  my 
lord,  by  art  or  coquetr5^,  sought  to  attract  your  notice,  your 
crime  would  have  been  palliated  ; but  when  you  pursued,  I re- 
tired ; and  the  knowledge  of  your  being  Lord  Cherbury’s  son 
first  induced  me  to  receive  your  visits.  I suffered  their  contin- 
uance, because  I thought  you  amiable  : sad  mistake ! Oh  ! 
cruel,  ungenerous  Mortimer,  how  have  you  abused  my  unsus- 
pecting confidence  ! ’’ 

As  she  ended  these  words,  she  moved  towards  the  door. 
Awed  by  her  manner,  confounded  by  her  reproaches,  tortured 
by  remorse  and  half  offended  at  her  refusing  to  hear  his  vindi- 
cation, he  no  longer  attempted  to  prevent  her  quitting  the 
apartment ; he  followed  her,  however,  from  it.  “ What  do  you 
mean,  my  lord,’’  asked  she,  “by  coming  after  me  ? ” 

“ I mean  to  see  you  safely  home,”  replied  he,  in  a tone  of 
proud  sullenness. 

“ And  is  it  Lord  Mortimer,”  cried  she,  looking  steadfastly  in 
his  face,  “.pretends  to  see  me  safe  ? ” 

He  stamped,  struck  his  hand  violently  against  his  forehead, 
and  exclaimed,  “ I see — I se^-^ — I am  despicable  in  your  eyes  ; 
but,  Amanda,  I cannot  endure  your  reproaches.  Pause  for  a 
few  minutes,  and  you  will  find  I am  not  so  deserving  of  them  as 
you  imagine.” 

She  made  no  reply,  but  quickened  her  pace  ; within  a few 
yards  of  the  cottage  Lord  Mortimer  caught  her,  with  a dis- 
tracted air.  “Amanda,”  said  he,  “I  cannot  bear  to  part  with 
you  in  this  manner ; you  think  me  the  veriest  villain  on  earth  ; 
you  will  drive  me  from  your  heart ; I shall  become  abhorrent  to 
you.” 

“ Most  assurdly,  my  lord,”  replied  she,  in  a solemn  voice. 

“ Cannot  compunction  then  extenuate  my  error  ? ” 

“ ’Tis  not  compunction,  ’tis  regret  you  feel,  for  finding  your 
designs  unsuccessful.” 

“No:  by  all  that  is  sacred,  ’tis  remorse  for  ever  having 
meditated  such  an  injury.  Yet  1 again  repeat,  if  you  listen  to 
me,  you  will  find  I am  not  so  culpable  as  you  believe.  Oh  I 
let  me  beseech  you  to  do  so  ; let  me  hope  that  my  life  may  be 
devoted  to  you  alone,  and  that  I may  thus  have  opportunities 
of  apologizing  for  my  conduct.  Oh  ! dearest  Amanda,”  kneel- 
ing before  her,  “ drive  me  not  from  you  in  the  hour  of  pen- 
itence.” 


68 


THE  CHILDREH  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


^^You  plead  in  vain,  my  lord,’^  cried  she, ‘ breaking  from 
him. 

He  started  in  an  agony  from  the  ground,  and  again  seized 
her.  Is  it  thus,”  he  exclaimed,  “ with  such  unfeeling  coldness 
I am  abandoned  by  Amanda  ? I will  leave  you,  if  you  only  say 
I am  not  detested  by  you ; if  you  only  say  the  remembrance  of 
the  sweet  hours  we  have  spent  together  will  not  become  hateful 
to  you.” 

He  was  pale  and  trembled  ; and  a tear  wet  his  cheek. 
Amanda’s  began  to  flow ; she  averted  her  head,  to  hide  her 
emotion ; but  he  had  perceived  it.  ‘‘You  weep,  my  Amanda,” 
said  he,  “ and  you  feel  the  influence  of  pity  ! ” 

“ No,  no,”  cried  she,  in  a voice  scarcely  articulate  : “ I will 
acknowledge,”  continued  she,  “ I believe  you  possessed  of  sen- 
sibility ; and  an  anticipation  of  the  painful  feelings  it  will  ex- 
cite on  the  reflection  of  your  conduct  to  me,  now  stops  my 
further  reproaches.  Ah ! my  lord,  timely  profit  by  mental 
correction,  nor  ever  again  encourage  a passion  which  virtue 
cannot  sanction  or  reason  justify.” 

Thus  spoke  the  angel ; 

And  the  grave  rebuke,  severe  in«youthful  beauty,* 

Added  grace  invincible.” 

Amanda  darted  from  Lord  Mortimer  ; and  entering  the  cot- 
tage, hastily  closed  the  door.  Her  looks  terrified  the  nurse, 
who  was  the  only  one  of  the  family  up,  and  who,  by  means  of 
one  of  her  sons,  had  discovered  that  Amanda  had  taken  refuge 
from  the  thunder-storm  in  Tudor  Hall. 

Amanda  had  neither  hat  nor  cloak  on  ; her  face  was  pale 
as  death ; her  hair,  blown  by  the  wind,  and  wet  from  the  rain, 
hung  dishevelled  about  her  ; and  to  the  inquiries  of  her  nurse 
she  could  only  answer  by  sobs  and  tears.  “ Lack  a tay,”  said 
the  nurse,  “ what  ails  my  sweet  chilt  ? ” 

Relieved  by  tears,  Amanda  told  her  nurse  she  was  not  very 
well,  and  that  she  had  been  reflecting  on  the  great  impropriety 
there  was  in  receiving  Lord  Mortimer’s  visits,  whom  she  begged 
her  nurse,  if  he  came  again,  not  to  admit. 

The  nurse  shook  her  head,  and  said  she  supposed  there  had 
been  some  quarrel  between  them  ; but  if  Lord  Mortimer  had 
done  anything  to  vex  her  tear  chilt,  she  would  make  him  pay 
for  it.  Amanda  charged  her  never  to  address  him  on  such  a 
subject ; and  having  made  her  promise  not  to  admit  him,  she 
retired  to  her  chamber  faint,  weary,  and  distressed.  The  in- 
dignity offered  her  by  Colonel  Belgrave  had  insulted  her  purity 


THE  CHILD  REE  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


69 

and  offended  her  pride,  but  he  had  not  wounded  the  softer 
feelings  of  her  soul ; it  was  Mortimer  alone  had  power  to  work 
them  up  to  agony. 

The  charm  which  had  soothed  her  sorrows  was  fled ; anc 
while  she  glowed  with  keen  resentment,  she  wept  from  disap- 
pointed tenderness.  ‘‘Alas!  my  father,’^  she  cried,  “is  this 
the  secure  retreat  you  fondly  thought  you  had  discovered  for 
me  1 Sad  mistake  I Less  had  I to  dread  from  the  audacious 
front  of  vice,  than  the  insidious  form  of  virtue  : delicacy  shrink- 
ing from  one,  immediately  announced  the  danger  ; but  inno- 
cence inspired  confidence  in  the  other ; and  credulity,  instead 
of  suspicion,  occupied  the  mind.  Am  I doomed  to  be  the  vic- 
tim of  deception — and,  except  thy  honest  tender  heart,  my 
father,  find  every  other  fraught  with  deceit  and  treachery  to 
me  ? Alas ! if  in  the  early  season  of  youth,  perpetual  perfidy 
makes  us  relinquish  candor  and  hope,  what  charms  can  the 
world  retain  ? The  soul  sickening,  recoils  within  itself,  and  no 
longer  startles  at  dissolution.  Belgrave  aimed  at  my  peace — 
but  Mortimer  alone  had  power  to  pierce  ‘ the  vital  vulnerable 
heart.’  Oh,  Mortimer  1 from  you  alone  the  blow  is  severe — 
you,  who,  in  divine  language  I may  say  were  my  guide,  my 
companion,  and  my  familiar  friend.” 

Lord  Mortimer  was  now  a prey  to  all  the  pangs  which  an 
ingenuous  mind,  oppressed  with  a consciousness  of  error,  must 
ever  feel : the  most  implacable  vengeance  could  not  devise  a 
greater  punishment  for  him,  than  his  own  thoughts  inflicted  ; 
the  empire  of  inordinate  passion  was  overthrown,  -and  honor 
and  reason  regained  their  full  and  natural  ascendancy  over 
them.  When  he  reflected  on  the  uniform  appearance  of  inno- 
cence Amanda  had  always  worn,  he  wondered  at  his  weakness* 
in  ever  having  doubted  its  reality — at  his  audacity,  in  ever  hav- 
ing insulted  it ; when  he  reflected  on  her  melancholy,  he  shud- 
dered as  if  having  aggravated  it.  “Your  sorrows,  as  well  as 
purity,  my  Amanda,”  he  cried,  “should  have  rendered  you  a 
sacred  object  to  me.” 

A ray  of  consolation  darted  into  his  mind  at  the  idea  of 
prevailing  on  her  to  listen  to  the  circumstances  which  had  led 
him  into  a conduct  so  unworthy  of  her  and  himself ; such  an 
explanation,  he  trusted,  would  regain  her  love  and  confidence, 
and  make  her  accept,  what  he  meant  immediately  to  offer — his 
hand : for  pride  and  ambition  could  raise  no  obstacles  to  oppose 
this  design  of  reparation  ; his  happiness  depended  on  its  being 
accepted.  Amanda  was  dearer  to  him  than  life,  and  hope  could 
sketch  no  prospect,  in  which  she  was  not  the  foremost  object. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Impetuous  in  his  passions,  the  lapse  of  the  hours  was  insup- 
yortably  tedious  ; and  the  idea  of  waiting  till  the  morning  to  de- 
clare his  penitence,  his  intention,  and  again  implore  her  forgive- 
ness, filled  him  with  agony ; he  went  up  to  the  cottage,  and 
laid  his  hand  upon  the  latch  ; he  hesitated  ; even  from  the  rus- 
tics he  wished  to  conceal  his  shame  and  confusion.  All  within 
and  without  the  cottage  was  still ; the  moonbeams  seemed  to 
sleep  upon  the  thatch,  and  the  trees  were  unagitated  by  a 
breeze. 

Happy  rustics  ! exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer.  Children 
of  content  and  undeviating  integrity,  sleep  presses  sweetly  on 
four  eyelids.  My  Amanda  too  rests,  for  she  is  innocent.’’ 

He  descended  to  the  valley,  and  saw  a light  from  her  win^ 
dow  : he  advanced  within  a few  yards  of  it,  and  saw  her  plainly 
walk  about  with  an  agitated  air — her  handkerchief  raised  to  her 
eyes,  as  if  she  wept.  His  feelings  rose  almost  to  frenzy  at  this 
sight,  and  he  execrated  himself  for  being  the  occasion  of  her 
tears.  The  village  clock  struck  one ; good  heavens  1 how' 
many  hours  must  intervene  ere  he  could  kneel  before  the  lovely 
mourner,  implore  her  soft  voice  to  accord  his  pardon,  and  (as 
he  flattered  himself  would  be  the  case),  in  the  fulness  of  recon- 
ciliation, press  her  to  his  throbbing  heart,  as  the  sweet  partner 
of  his  futi^re  days.  The  light  was  at  last  extinguished  ; but  he 
could  not  rest,  and  continued  to  wander  about  like  a perturbed 
spirit  till  the  day  began  to  dawn,  and  he  saw  some  early  peas- 
ant? to  their  labors. 


CHAPTER  Vllt 

“ Oh  let  me  now,  into  a richer  soil. 

Transplant  thee  safe,  where  vernal  suns  and  showers 
Diffuse  their  warmest,  largest  influence  ; 

And  of  my  garden  be  the  pride  and  joy,’* — Thomson. 

Thf  moment  he  thought  he  could  see  Amanda,  Mortimi^r 
hastened  to  the  cottage  ; the  nurse,  as  she  had  promised,  would 
not  reproach  him,  though  she  strongly  suspected  his  having 
done  something  to  offend  her  child  j that  her  sullen  air  declared 
her  dissatisfaction.  ‘‘Miss  Fitzalan  was  too  ill,”  she  said,  ‘Ho 
see  company ; ” (for  I^ord  Mortimer  had  inquired  for  Amanda 
by  her  real  name,  det^stin^;  ihe  one  5^f  Dunford,  which,  in  a 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


.great  degree,  he  imputed  his  unfortunate  conduct  to  her.)  The 
nurse  spoke  truth  in  saying  Amanda  was  ill ; her  agitation  was 
too  much  for  her  frame,  and  in  the  morning  she  felt  so  feverish 
she  could  not  rise ; she  had  not  spirits,  indeed,  to  attempt  it. 
Sunk  to  the  lowest  ebb  of  dejection,  she  felt  solitude  alone 
congenial  to  her  feelings.  Hitherto  the  morning  had  been  im- 
patiently expected ; for,  with  Mortimer,  she  enjoyed  its 

Cool,  its  fragrant,  and  its  silent  hour.’* 

But  no  Mortimer  was  now  desired.  In  the  evening  he 
made  another  attempt ; and  finding  Ellen  alone,  sent  in  a sup- 
plicatory message  by  her  to  Amanda.  She  was  just  risen,  and 
Mrs.  Edwin  was  making  tea  for  her ; a flush  of  indignation 
overspread  her  pale  face,  on  receiving  his  message.  • ‘^Tell 
him,’^  said  she,  ‘H  am  astonished  at  his  request,  and  never  will 
grant  it.  Let  him  seek  elsewhere  a heart  more  like  his  own, 
and  trouble  rqy  repose  no  more.’’ 

He  heard  her  words,  and  in  a fit  of  passion  and  disappoint- 
ment flew  out  of  the  house.  Howel  entered  soon  after,  and 
heard  from  Ellen  an  account  of  the  quarrel ; a secret  hope 
sprung  in  his  heart  at  this  intelligence,  and  he  desired  Ellen  to 
meet  him  in  about  half  an  hour  in  the  valley,  thinking  by  that 
time  he  could  dictate  some  message  to  send  by  her  to  Amanda. 

As  the  parson  had  never  paid  Miss  Fitzalan  any  of  those 
attentions  which  strike  a vulgar  eye,  and  had  often  laughed  and 
familiarly  chatted  with  Ellen,  she  took  it  into  her  head  he  was 
an  admirer  of  hers  ; and  if  being  the  object  of  Chip’s  admira- 
tion excited  the  envy  of  her  neighbors,  how  much  would  that 
increase  when  the  parson’s  predilection  was  known  ? She  set 
about  adorning  herself  for  her  appointment ; and  while  thus 
employed  the  honest,  faithful  Chip  entered,  attired  in  his  holi- 
day clothes,  to  escort  her  to  a little  dance.  Ellen  bridled 
up  at  the  first  intimation  of  it ; and,  delighted  with  the  message 
Amanda  had  sent  to  Lord  Mortimer,  which  in  her  opinioh  was 
extremely  eloquent,  she  resolved  now  to  imitate  it. 

“Timothy,”  said  she,  drawing  back  her  head,  “your  request 
is  the  most  improperest  that  can  be  conceived,  and  it  is  by  no 
means  convenient  for  me  to  adhere  to  it.  I tell  you,  Tim,” 
cried  she,  waving  the  corner  of  her  white  apron,  for  white  hand- 
kerchief she  had  not,  “ I wonder  at  your  presumptioness  in 
making  it ; cease  your  flattering  expressions  of  love,  look  out 
amongst  the  inferiority  for  a heart  more  like  your  own,  and 
trouble  my  pleasure  no  more.” 

Chip  paused  a moment,  as  if  wanting  to  comprehend  hei 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


72 

meaning.  “The  short  and  the  long  of  it  then,  NelV’  said  he,, 
“ is,  that  you  and  I are  to  have  nothing  more  to  say  to  each 
other.’^ 

“ True,”  cried  his  coquettish  mistress. 

“Well,  well,  Nell,”  said  he,  half  crying,  “the  time  may 
come  when  you  will  repent  having  served  a true-hearted  lad  in 
this  manner.”  So  saying,  he  ran  from  the  house. 

Ellen  surveyed  herself  with  great  admiration,  and  expected 
nothing  less  than  an  immediate  offer  of  the  parson’s  hand. 
She  found  him  punctual  to  his  appointment,  and  after  walking 
some  time  about  the  valley,  they  sat  down  together  upon  a little 
bank.  “Ellen,”  said  he,  taking  her  hand,  “do  you  think  there 
is  any  hope  for  me  ? ” 

“ Nay,  now  intead,  Mr.  Elowel,”  criea  she,  with  affected 
coyness,  “ that  is  such  a strange  question.” 

“ But  the  quarrel,  perhaps,”  said  he,  “ may  be  made  up.” 

“No,  I assure  you,”  replied  she,  with  quickness,  “it  was 
entirely  on  your  account  it  ever  took  place.” 

“ Is  it  possible ! ” exclaimed  he,  pleasure  sparkling  in  his 
eyes  ; “then  I may  re-urge  my  passion.” 

“ Ah,  tear  now,  Mr.  Howel,  you  are  so  very  pressing.” 

“ Do  you  think,”  said  he,  “ she  is  too  ill  to  see  me  ? ” 

“ Who  too  ill  ? ” 

“Why,  Miss  Fitzalan.”  (For,  the  moment  Ellen  kneW  Lord 
Mortimer  was  acquainted  with  Amanda’s  name,  she  thought 
there  was  no  longer  reason  for  concealing  it  from  any  one,  and 
had  informed  Howel  of  it.) 

“ Miss  Fitzalan  1 ” repeated  she,  staring  and  changing 
color. 

“ Yes,  Ellen,  the  dear,  lovely  Miss  Fitzalan,  v/hom  I adore 
more  than  language  can  express,  or  imagination  conceive.” 

Adieu  to  Ellen’s  airy  hopes  : her  chagrin  could  not  be  con- 
cealed ; and  tears  burst  from  her.  The  curate  tenderly  in 
quiretl  the  cause  of  her  emotion  ; though  vain,  she  was  not  art 
ful,  and  could  not  disguise  it.  “ Why,  really,  you  made  such 
speeches,  I thought — and  then  you  looked  so.  But  it  is  no 
matter : I pelieve  all  men  are  teceitful.” 

From  her  tears  and  disjointed  sentences,  he  began  to  sus- 
pect something,  and  his  gentle  mind  was  hurt  at  the  idea  of 
giving  her  pain  ; anxious,  however,  to  receive  his  doom  from 
Amanda,  he  again  asked,  if  she  thought  he  could  see  her. 

Ellen  answered  him  snappishly,  she  could  not  tell ; and 
hurried  to  the  cottage,  where  a flood  of  tears  soon  relieved  her 
distress.  To  be  dressed  so  charmingly,  and  for  no  purpose, 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  7TIS  ABBEY. 


73 


was  a pity : she  therefore  resolved  on  going  to  the  dance,  con- 
soling herself  with  the  old  saying  of  having  more  than  one 
string  to  her  bow;  and  that  if  Chip  was  not  as  genteel,  he  was 
quite  as  personable  a man  as  the  curate.  Walking  down  the 
lane,  she  met  a little  boy,  who  gave  her  a letter  from  Chip  ; full 
of  the  idea  of  its  containing  some  overtures  for  a reconciliation, 
she  hastily  broke  it  open,  and  read  to  the  following  effect : — • 

Ellen: — After  your  cruelty,  I could  not  bear  to  stay  in  the  village,  af 
I never  could  work  another  stroke  with  a light  heart ; and  every  tree  an<!i 
meadow  would  remind  me  of  the  love  my  dear  girl  once  bore  her  poor 
Chip.  So,  before  this  comes  to  hand,  I shall  be  on  my  way  to  enter  one  of 
the  King’s  ships,  and  Heaven  knows  whether  we  shall  ever  meet  again  ; but 
this  I know,  I shall  always  love  Ellen,  though  she  was  so  cruel  to  her  own 
faithful  Tim  Chip. 

Thus  did  the  vanity  of  Ellen  receive  a speedy  punishment. 
Her  distress  for  some  days  was  unabated ; but  at  last  yielded 
to  the  mild  arguments  of  Amanda,  and  the  hopes  she  inspired 
of  seeing  the  wandering  hero  again. 

Howel  at  last  obtained  an  interview,  and  ventured  to  plead 
his  passion.  Amanda  thanked  him  for  his  regard,  but  declared 
her  inability  of  returning  it  as  he  wished  ; assuring  him,  how- 
ever, at  the  same  time,  of  her  sincere  friendship. 

“This  then  shall  suffice,’’ said  he.  “Neither  sorrow  nor 
disappointment  are  new  to  me ; and  when  they  oppress  me,  I 
will  turn  to  the  idea  of  my  angel  friend,  and  forget,  for  some 
moments  at  least,  my  heavy  burden.” 

Lord  Mortimer  made  several  attempts  for  again  seeing 
Amanda,  but  without  success ; he  then  wrote,  but  his  letters 
were  not  successful.  In  despair  at  finding  neither  letters  nor 
messages  received  by  Amanda,  he  at  last,  by  stratagem,  effected 
an  interview.  Meeting  one  of  the  young  Edwins  returning 
from  the  post-town  with  a letter,  be  inquired,  and  heard  it  was 
for  Miss  Fitzalan  ; a little  persuasion  prevailed  on  the  young 
man  to  relinquish  it,  and  Lord  Mortimer  flew  directly  to  the 
cottage.  “ Now,”  cried  he,  “ the  inexorable  girl  must  appear,  if 
she  wishes  to  receive  her  letter.” 

The  nurse  informed  Amanda  of  it ; but  she,  suspecting  it  to 
be  a scheme,  refused  to  appear.  “ By  Heaven,  I do  not  de- 
ceive her  ! ” exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer  ; “ nor  will  I give  the  let- 
ter into  any  hands  but  hers.”  “ This,  my  lord,”  said  Amanda, 
coming  from  her  chamber,  “is  really  cruel  ; but  give  me  the 
letter,”  impatiently  stretching  out  her  hand  for  it.  “ Another 
condition  remains  to  be  complied  with,”  cried  he,  seizing  her 
soft  hand,  which  she,  however,  instantly  withdrew;  “you  must 


74 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


read  it,  Miss  Fitzalan,  in  my  presence/^  Good  Heavens,  how 
you  torment  me  ! ’’  she  exclaimed.  ‘‘  Do  you  comply  then  ? ’’ 
‘‘Yes,^^she  replied,  and  received  the  letter  from  him.  The 
pity  and  compunction  6?  his  lordship  increased  as  he  gazed  on 
her  pale  face,  while  her  eyes  eagerly  ran  over  the  contents  of 
the  letter,  which  were  as  follows  : — 

I 

TO  MISS  FITZALAN. 

To  be  able  to  communicate  pleasure  to  my  Amanda,  rewards  me  for 
tedious  months  of  wretchedness.  Dry  up  your  tears,  sweet  child  of  early 
sorrow,  for  the  source  of  grief  exists  no  longer;  Lord  Cherbury  has  been 
kind  beyond  my  warmest  expectations,  and  has  given  me  the  ineffable  de- 
light, as  far  as  pecuniary  matters  can  do,  of  rendering  the  future  days  of 
Amanda  happy.  In  my  next  I shall  be  more  explicit;  at  present  I have 
not  a moment  I can  call  my  own,  which  must  excuse  this  laconic  letter. 
The  faithful  Edwins  will  rejoice  in  the  renewed  fortune  of  their  dear 
Amanda’s  affectionate  father. 

Jermyn  Street.  Augustus  Fitzalan, 

The  emotions  of  Amanda  were  irrepressible : the  letter 
dropped  from  her  trembling  hands,  and  her  streaming  eyes 
were  raised  to  heaven.  “ Oh  bless  him  ! ’’  she  exclaimed. 
“ Gracious  Heaven,  bless  the  benefactor  of  my  father  for  this 
good  deed  ! May  sorrow  or  misfortune  never  come  across  his 
path.” 

‘‘And  who,  may  I ask,”  said  Lord  Mortimer,  ‘‘merits  so 
sweet  a prayer  from  Amanda  ? ” 

“ See,”  cried  she,  presenting  him  the  letter,  as  if  happy  at 
the  moment  to  have  such  a proof  of  the  truth  of  what  she  had 
alleged  to  him. 

Lord  Mortimer  was  affected  by  the  letter:  his  eyes  filled 
with  tears,  and  he  turned  aside  to  hide  his  emotion  ; recovering 
himself,  he  again  approached  her.  “ And  while  you  so  sweetly 
pray  for  the  felicity  of  the  father,”  said  he,  “are  you  resolved 
on  dooming  the  son  to  despair  ? If  sincere  penitence  can  ex- 
tenuate error,  and  merit  mercy,  I deserve  to  be  forgiven.” 

Amanda  rose,  as  if  with  an  intention  of  retiring,  but  Lord 
Mortimer  caught  her  hand.  “ Think  not,”  cried  he,  “ I will 
lose  the  present  opportunity,  which  I have  so  long  desired,  and 
with  such  difficulty  obtained,  of  entering  into  a vindication  of 
my  conduct : however  it  may  be  received  by  you,  it  is  a justice 
I owe  my  own  character  to  make  : for  as  I never  wilfully  in- 
jured innocence,  so  I cannot  bear  to  be  considered  as  its  violator. 
Amidst  the  wildness,  the  extravagance  of  youth,  which  with 
compunction  I acknowledge  being  too  often  led  into,  my  heart 


THE  CHILDREN-  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


75 


Still  acquitted  me  of  ever  committing  an  act  which  could  entail 
upon, me  the  pangs  of  conscience.  Sacred  to  me  has  virtue 
ever  been,  how  lowly  soever  in  situation.’’ 

The  idea  of  his  being  able  to  vindicate  himself  scarcely 
afforded  less  pleasure  to  Amanda  than  it  did  to  Lord  Mortimer. 
She  suffered  him  to  reseat  her,  while  he  related  the  circum- 
stances which  had  led^iiin  astray  in  his  opinion  of  her.  Oh  ! 
how  fervent  was  the  rapture  that  pervaded  Amanda’s  heart, 
when,  as  she  listened  to  him,  she  found  he  was  still  the  amiable, 
the  generous,  the  noble  character  her  fancy  had  first  conceived 
him  to  be.  Teats  of  pleasure,  exquisite  as  those  she  had  lately 
shed,  again  fell  from  her;  for  oh!  what  delight  is  there  in 
knowing  that  an  object  we  cannot  help  loving  we  may  still  es- 
teem. Thus,”  continued  Lord  Mortimer,  “ have  I accounted 
for  my  error:  an  error  which,  except  on.  account  of  your  dis- 
pleasure, I know  not  whether  I should  regret,  as  it  has  con- 
vinced me,  more  forcibly  than  any  other  circumstance  could 
have  done,  of  the  perfections  of  your  mind,  and  has,  besides, 
removed  from  mine  prejudices  Vvhich  causelessly  I did  not  en- 
tertain against  your  sex.  Was  every  woman  in  a similar  situa- 
tion to  act  like  you, 

Such  numbers  would  not  in  vain, 

Of  broken  vows  and  faithless  men  complain. 

To  call  you  mine  is  the  height  of  my  wishes  ; on  your  decision 
I rest  for  happiness.  Oh  ! my  Amanda,  let  it  be  a favorable 
decision,  and  suffer  me  to  write  to  Mr.  Fitzalan,  and  request 
him  to  bestow  on  me  the  greatest  treasure  one  being  could  poS' 
sibly  receive  from  another — a woman  lovely  and  educated  aa 
you  have  been.” 

When  he  mentioned  appealing  to  her  father,  Amanda  could 
no  longer  doubt  the  sincerity  of  his  intentions.  Her  own  heart 
pleaded  as  powerfully  as  his  solicitations  did  for  pardoning  him  ; 
and  if  she  did  not  absolutely  extend  her  hand,  she  at  least  suf 
fered  it  to  be  taken  without  any  reluctance.  ‘‘  I am  forgiven, 
then,”  said  Lord  Mortimer,  pressing  her  to  his  bosom.  ‘‘  Oil, 
my  Amanda,  years  of  tender  attention  can  never  make  up  for 
this  goodness  ! ” 

When  his  transports  were  a little  abated,  he  insisted  on 
writing  immediately  to  Pltzalan.  As  he  sealed  the  letter,  he 
told  Amanda  he  had  requested  an  expeditious  answer.  The 
happiness  of  the  youthful  pair  was  communicated  to  the  hon- 
est rustics,  whom  Lord  Mortimer  liberally  rewarded  for  their 
fidelity  to  his  Amanda,  and  whom  she  readily  excused  for  theix 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


76 

ambiguous  expressions  to  him,  knowing  they  proceeded  from 
simplicity  of  heart,  and  a wish  of  serving  her,  yet  without  in- 
juring themselves,  by  betraying  the  manner  in  which  they  had 
procured  their  intelligence  of  her  situation. 

The  day  after  the  reconciliation.  Lord  Mortimer  told 
Amanda  he  was  compelled,  for  a short  time,  to  leave  her  ; with 
that  reluctance,  he  hoped,  he  said,  she  (tould  readily  conceive  ; 
but  the  visit,  which  he  had  come  into  Wales  for  the  purpose  of 
paying,  had  been  so  long  deferred,  his  friend  was  growing  im- 
patient, and  threatened  to  come  to  Tudor  Hall  to  see  what 
detained  him  there.  To  prevent  such  a measure,  which  he 
knew  would  be  a total  interruption  to  the  happiness  he  enjoyed 
in  her  society,  L3rd  Mortimer  added  he  meant  to  pass  a few 
days  with  him,  hoping  by  the  time  he  returned  there  would  be 
a letter  from  Mr.  Fitzalan,  which  would  authorize  his  immedi- 
ate preparations  for  their  nuptials.  Amanda  wished,  but  could 
not  totally  hide,  the  uneasiness  she  felt  at  the  prospect  of  a 
separation  ; the  idea,  however,  of  his  speedy  return,  rendered 
it  but  transient,  and  he  departed  in  a few  hours  after  he  had 
mentioned  his  intention. 

Amanda  had  never  before  experienced  such  happiness  as 
she  now  enjoyed.  She  now  saw  herself  on  the  point  of  being 
elevated  to  a situation,  by  a man,  too,  whom  she  adored,  which 
would  give  her  ample  opportunities  of  serving  the  dearest  con- 
nections of  her  heart,  and  of  gratifying  the  benevolence  of  her 
disposition,  and  the  elegance  of  her  taste.  Oh,  how  delight- 
ful to  think  she  should  be  able  to  soothe  the  declining  period 
of  her  father’s  life,  by  providing  for  him  all  the  requisite  indul- 
gences of  age ! oh,  how  delightful  to  think  she  should  be 
accessory  to  her  dear  Oscar’s  promotion  ! how  rapturous  to 
imagine  at  her  approach  the  drooping  children  of  misery  would 
brighten  wdth  pleasing  presages  of  relief,  which  she  should 
amply  realize  ! Such  were  Amanda’s  anticipations  of  what  she 
termed  the  blessings  of  an  affluent  fortune  ; felicity,  in  her 
opinion,  was  to  be  diffused  to  be  enjoyed.  Of  Lord  Cherbury’s 
sanction  to  the  attachment  of  his  son,  she  entertained  not  a 
doubt ; her  birth  was  little  inferior  to  his,  and  fortune  was 
entirely  out  of  the  question — for  a liberal  mind,  she  thought, 
could  never  look  to  that,  when  on  one  side  was  already  pos- 
sessed more  than  sufficient  for  even  the  luxuries  of  life.  Such 
were  the  ideas  of  the  innocent  and  romantic  Amanda — ideas 
which  made  her  seem  to  tread  on  air,  and  which  she  enter- 
..ained  till  subseauent  experience  convinced  her  of  th^eir  fallacy- 


TffE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


n 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Alas  I the  story  melts  away  my  soul  I 
That  best  of  fathers,  how  shall  I discharge 
The  gratitude  and  duty  which  I owe  him  ? 

—By  laying  up  his  counsels  in  your  heart.” — Cato. 

Amanda  was  sitting  in  the  recess  in  the  garden,  the  fourth 
evening  of  Lord  Mortimer^s  absence,  when  suddenly  she  heard 
the  rattling  of  a carriage.  Her  heart  bounded,  and  she  flew 
into  the  house ; at  the  very  moment  a chaise  stopped  at  the 
door,  from  which,  to  her  inexpressible  amazement,  her  father 
descended. 

Transfixed  to  the  spot,  it  was  many  minutes  ere  she  had 
power  to  bid  him  welcome,  or  return  the  fond  caresses  he  be- 
stowed upon  her.  ‘‘  I am  come,  Amanda,’’  said  he,  eagerly 
interrupting  the  joyful  speeches  of  the  Edwins,  ‘‘  to  take  you 
away  with  me  ; and  one  hour  is  all  I can  give  you  to  prepare 
yourself.”  “ Good  Heaven  ! ” said  Amanda,  starting,  “ to  take 
me  away  immediately  1 Immediately,”  he  repeated.  ‘‘  And 
as  I know  you  are  attached  to  this  good  girl,”  turning  to  Ellen, 
‘H.  shall  be  happy,  if  her  parents  permit,  to  procure  her  at- 
tendance for  you.” 

The  Edwins,  who  would  have  followed  themselves,  or  al- 
lowed any  of  their  family  to  follow  Fitzalan  and  his  daughter 
round  the  world,  gladly  consented  to  her  going ; and  the  girl, 
exclusive  of  her  attachment  to  Amanda,  which  was  very  great, 
having  pined  ever  since  her  lover’s  departure,  rejoiced  at  the 
idea  of  a change  of  scene. 

Not  so  Amanda:  it  made  her  suffer  agony  ; to  be  torn  from 
Lord  Mortimei  in  the  hour  of  reconciliation  and  explanation, 
was  more  than  she  could  support  with  fortitude.  Her  father, 
perhaps,  had  not  received  his  letter ; it  was  but  justice  then  to 
him  and  Lord  Mortimer  to  reveal  her  situation.  She  left  her 
trunk  half-packed,  and  went  out  for  that  p’^rpose  ; but  as  she 
stood  before  him  with  quivering  lips  and  half-averted  eyes,  at  a 
loss  to  begin,  he  took  her  hand,  and  softly  exclaimed : “ My 
love,  let  us  for  the  present  waive  every  subject ; 'the  moments 
are  precious  ; hasten  to  put  on  your  habit,  or  we  shall  be  too 
late  at  tlie  stage  where  I propose  resting  to-night.”  Amanda 
turned  in  silence  to  her  chamber  to  pomply  with  his  desires 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


78 

tears  ran  down  her  cheeks,  and  for  the  first  time  she  conceived 
the  idea  of  being  hurried  away  to  avoid  Lord  Mortimer ; but 
why,  she  could  not  think — honor  as  well  as  tenderness,  she 
thought,  demanded  her  acquainting  him  with  the  cause  of  her 
precipitate  journey ; but,  when  she  took  up  a pen  for  that  pur- 
pose, her  hand  was  unsteady,  and  she  was  so  much  disturber 
by  the  nurse  and  her  daughters,  who  ran  backwards  and  for- 
wards in  all  the  bustle  of  preparation,  that  she  could  not  write  • 
her  father  prevented  a second  effort,  for  he  was  continually 
coming  to  her  chamber-door  urging  her  to  be  quick,  and  thus 
prevented  her  delivering  any  message  to  the  nurse  for  Lord 
Mortimer ; so  great  was  his  eagerness  to  depart,  he  would  not 
suffer  the  horses  to  be  taken  from  the  chaise,  or  any  refresh- 
ment to  be  brought  him  by  the  Edwins,  notwithstanding  their 
pressing  entreaties  : neither  would  he  answer  their  interroga- 
tories as  to  where  he  was  going,  saying  they  should  know  here- 
after. The  parting  embrace  was  at  last  given  and  received 
with  a heavy  heart — Amanda  was  handed  to  the  carriage — 
silence  prevailed — all  the  travellers  were  equally  though  differ- 
ently affected  ; the  cottage  and  the  spire  of  the  village  church 
had  awakened  the  most  affecting  remembrances  in  the  mind 
of  Fitzalan,  and  tears  fell  from  him  to  the  memory  of  his  un- 
fortunate Malvina ; sighs  burst  from  Amanda  as  she  viewed 
the  white  turrets  of  Tudor  Hall,  and  Ellen  sobbed  on  passing 
the  forsaken  cottage  of  poor  Chip.  From  all  these  affecting 
and  beloved  objects  the  rapidity  of  the  carriage  soon  conveyed 
them  ; but  the  impressions  they  left  upon  their  minds  were  not 
so  easily  eradicated.  Fitzalan  was  the  first  to  break  the  un- 
social silence,  and  it  seemed  as  if  he  did  so  for  the  purpose  of 
rousing  the  dejection  of  his  daughter : a cross  road  from  the 
cottage  shortly  brought  them  to  Conway  Ferry,  which  thev 
were  obliged  to  pass,  and  here,  had  Amanda’s  mind  been  at 
ease,  she  Vvould  have  felt  truly  gratified  by  viewing  the  remains 
of  gothic  magnificence  which  Castle  Conway  exhibited ; as  it 
was,  she  could  not  behold  them  unmoved,  and,  whilst  she  ad- 
mired, gave  the  passing  tribute  of  a sigh  to  grandeur  and 
decay.  They  only  continued  in  Conway  till  a carriage  was 
provided  for  them,  and  soon  came  beneath  the  stupendous  pro- 
jections of  Penmaenmawr;  this  was  a scene  as  new  as  awful 
to  Amanda : Well,  Cot  in  heaven  pless  their  souls,”  Ellen 
said,  “ what  a tefil  of  a way  they  should  be  in  if  one  of  them 
huge  stones  rolled  down  upon  the  carriage.”  They  stopped 
not  again  until  they  reached  Bangor  Ferry,  where  they  were  to 
rest  for  the  night.  Amanda’s  strength  and  spirits  were  now 


ms  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


79 


so  entirely  exhausted,  that  had  not  a glass  of  wine  been  imme- 
diately procured  her,  she  would  have  fainted  from  weakness  ; 
this  a little  revived  her,  and  the  tears  she  shed  relieved  in  some 
degree  the  oppression  of  her  heart ; her  father  left  her  and 
Ellen  together,  while  he  went  to  give  directions  about  the  jour- 
ney of  the  ensuing  day. 

Amanda  went  to  the  window  and  threw  up  the  sash  ; the 
air  from  the  mountains  she  thought  refreshed  her  ; the  dark- 
ness of  the  hour  was  opposed  by  a bright  moon,  which  cast  a 
trembling  radiance  upon  the  water,  and  by  its  partial  gleams 
exhibited  a beautiful  scene  of  light  and  shade,  that  had  Amanda 
been  in  another  frame  of  mind  she  would  infinitely  have  ad- 
mired ; the  scene  too  was  almost  as  still  as  it  was  lovely,  for 
no  voice  was  heard  except  a low  murmur  from  voices  below 
stairs : while  she  stood  here  in  a deep  reverie,  the  paddling  of 
oars  suddenly  roused  her,  and  she  beheld  a boat  on  the  oppo- 
site shore,  which  in  a few  minutes  gained  the  one  where  she 
was,  and  she  saw  coming  from  it  to  the  inn  a large  party  of 
gentlemen,  whose  air  and  attendants  announced  them  to  be 
men  of  fashion  ; they  seemed  by  their  discourse  to  be  a con- 
vivial party ; the  light  was  too  dim  to  allow  their  faces  to  be 
discerned,  but  in  the  figure  of  one  Amanda  thought  she  per- 
ceived a strong  resemblance  to  Lord  Mortimer;  her  heart 
throbbed,  she  leaned  forward  to  endeavor  to  distinguish  more 
plainly,  ai  d at  the  moment  heard  his  well-known  voice  order- 
ing his  grcvitn  to  have  the  horses  ready  at  twelve  o’clock,  as  he 
would  take  the  advantage  of  such  fine  weather  to  set  off  at 
that  hour  for  Tudor  Hall ; the  party  were  then  ushered  into  a 
room  contiguous  to  the  one  occupied  by  Amanda,  while  the 
bustling  of  the  waiters,  and  the  clattering  of  knives,  forks,  and 
plates,  announced  the  preparations  for  a late  dinner.  Oh ! 
what  were  now  the  agitations  of  Amanda,  to  think  that  in  one 
moment  she  could  inform  Lord  Mortimer  of  her  situation  ; but 
the  transport  the  idea  gave  was  relinquished  almost  as  soon  as 
felt,  as  such  a measure  she  thought  might  perhaps  for  ever  dis- 
oblige her  father.  In  this  tumult  of  doubt  and  perplexity  he 
found  her ; and  by  his  conduct  convinced  her  that  he  not  only 
knew  of  Lord  Mortimer’s  being  in  the  house,  but  wished  her 
kO  avoid  him  ; for  he  instantly  led  her  from  the  window,  and, 
shutting  it  down,  darted,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  a severe 
frown  at  her  ; a dagger  in  the  breast  of  Amanda  could  scarcely 
have  given  her  more  pain — a cold  horror  ran  through  her  veins, 
and  she  was  oppressed  by  as  many  fears  as  if  she  had  been 
conscious  of  offending^  him.  The  supper  he  had  ordered  wa» 


8o 


THE  CHILD  RE  K OF  THE  ABBEY. 


a little  retarded  by  the  late  dinner  of  his  gay  neighbors ; he 
would  have  had  it  in  another  room  had  another  been  disen- 
gaged ; vainly  did  his  timid  companions  try  to  eat — Amanda 
was  sick,  and  Ellen  frightened,  though  she  knew  not  why  ; the 
waiter  was  dismissed,  and  the  most  unsocial  silence  prevailed. 

Unbounded  gayety  reigned  in  the  next  apartment,  from 
which  every  sound  could  plainly  be  distinguished.  Dinner 
over,  the  exhilarating  juice  went  round,  and  bumjDer  toasts  were 
called.  Lord  Mortimer  at  last  was  asked  for  a fair  nymph. 

I will  give  you,’’  exclaimed  he,  in  a voice  which  denoted  his 
being  uncommonly  elevated,  “ an  Angel ! ” — Amanda’s  heart 
beat  violently,  and  her  cheeks  glowed.  A name  for  this 
celestial  beauty!”  demanded  one  of  the  party:  ‘‘Amanda,” 
cried  his  lordship.  “ Oh,  faith,  Mortimer,  that  won’t  do  ; said 
another  of  his  companions  ; “ this  angel  shall  not  pass  without 
•the  rest  of  her  name.”  “ Miss  Fitzalan,  then,”  exclaimed  his 
lordship.  “ Oh  1 oh  ! ” cried  a new  voice,  with  a loud  laugh, 
after  due  honor  had  been  paid  to  the  toast,  ‘M  begin  to  unravel 
a mystery ; upon  my  soul  I could  not  conceive  till  this  instant 
what  had  kept  you  so  long  at  the  hall ; for  I had  seen  the 
maiden  part  of  the  household,  and  knew  the  metal  there  not 
very  attractive  ; but  this  Amanda,  I suppose,  is  the  rosy  daugh- 
ter  of  some  poor  curate  in  its  vicinity,  who  for” — “ Beware  1 ” 
interrupted  Lord  Mortimer  in  an  agitated  voice,  “ of  what  you 
say ; give  me  no  reason  to  repent  having  introduced  a name  so 
valued  into  this  company — the  situation  of  Miss  Fitzalan  is  not 
exactly  what  you  suppose  : but  let  this  suffice  for  you  to  know 
— it  is  such  as  secures  her  from  every  species  of  impertinence 
and  were  it  even  less  protected,  her  own  elegance  and  propriety 
would  elevate  her  above  receiving  any.”  The  face  of  Fitzalan, 
during  this  conversation,  was  crimsoned  over,  and  he  again 
darted  a frown  at  the  trembling  Amanda,  which  almost  petrihed 
her,  he  told  her  that  she  and  Ellen  must  retire  immediately  to 
rest,  as  they  had  a long  joiu  .ey  before  them  the  ensuing  day, 
which  would  require  their  rising  ’'ly.  Amanda,  for  the  first  time 
in  her  life,  wished  to  be  relieved  from  his  presence,  and  gladly 
rose  to  obey  m;  he  attended  her  himself  to  the  room  pre^ 
pared  for  her,  which  was  directl  over  that  where  the  gentlemen 
sat ; to  think  of  rest  was  impossible  ; the  severity  of  her  father’s 
looks,  and  her  precipitate  journey — she  knew  not  whither — but 
evidently  for  the  purpose  of  avoiding  Lord  Mortimer,  filled  the 
thoughts  of  Amanda  with  confusion  and  distress  : Ellen  essayed 
artless  consolation:  “ What  the  tefil  do  you  think,”  said  she, 
if  I was  to  go  down  to  give  his  lortship  an  intimation  of  youi- 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  8 1 

peing  here  ; you  could  easily  contrive  to  see  him  in  the  garden, 
or  else  vve  could  pring  him  up  here,  and  if  the  captain  surprised 
us,  we  could  pop  him  in  a moment  behind  the  curtain.’’  Amanda 
motioned  her  ta  silence,  unwilling  to  lose  the  smallest  sound  of 
Lord  Mortimer’s  voice,  and  determined,  anxious  as  she  was  to 
see  him,  never  to  act  in  opposition  to  her  father.  At  length 
the  horses  were  led  from  the  stable,  and  the  convivial  party  de- 
scended to  them.  Amanda  softly  raised  the  window,  and  saw 
Lord  Mortimer  eagerly  vault  upon  the  saddle  ; he  gave  a hasty 
adieu  to  the  friends,  and  galloped  off  ; they  mounted  at  the 
same  time,  but  took  a contrary  direction.  Amanda  leaned  out- 
till  she  could  no  longer  hear  the  clattering  of  the  horses’  hoofs  ; 
her  heart  sunk  as  the  sound  died  upon  her  ear ; she  wept  as  she 
retired  from  the  window  ; the  idea  of  Mortimer’s  disappoint- 
ment aggravated  her  grief  ; she  no  longer  opposed  Ellen’s  efforts 
to  undress  her  ; exhausted  by  fatigue,  sleep  soon  closed  her  eyes,, 
and  fancy  again  transported  her  to  Tudor  Hall  and  Mortimer. 

By  the  first  dawn  of  day  a knock  at  her  chamber-door  roused 
her  from  this  pleasing  illusion,  and  she  heard  her  father  desir- 
ing her  to  rise  immediately.  Drowsy  as  she  was,  she  instantly 
obeyed  the  summons,  and  awaking  Ellen,  they  were  ready  to 
attend  him  in  a few  minutes  ; a boat  was  already  prepared,  and 
on  gaining  the  'pposite  side  they  found  a carriage  in  waiting. 
Day  was  now  just  dawning  ; a gray  mist  enveloped  the  moun- 
tains, and  cast  a shade  of  obscurity  upon  all  the  inferior  objects  ; 
at  length  the  atmosphere  began  to  brighten — the  lucid  clouds  in 
the  east  were  tinged  with  golden  radiance,  and  the  sun  in  beau- 
tiful and  refulgent  majesty  arose,  gladdening  the  face  of  nature 
with  its  potent  beams  ; the  trees,  the  shrubs,  seemed  waving 
their  dewy  heads  in  sign  of  grateful  homage,  while  their  winged 
inhabitants,  as  they  soared  in  the  air,  poured  forth  the  softest 
notes  of  melody.  Amanda,  in  spite  of  sadness,  beheld  the 
charming  scene  with  admiration  ; and  Fitzalan  contemplated  it 
with  delight.  “All  nature,”  he  exclaimed,  “points  out  to  man 
the  gratitude  due  tc>  the  Divine  dispenser  of  good  ; hardened 
must  that  heart  be  against  the  feelings  of  sensibility,  which  the 
harmony  and  fragrance  of  this  eaTy  hour  awakens  not  to  a per- 
fect sense  of  it ! ” Amanda  assented  to  his  remark  more  by  a 
smile  than  words,  M she  was  ill  able  to  speak.  They  stopped  not 
till  they  reached  Gwintey,  where  they  breakfasted,  and  then  pro- 
ceeded, without  resting  again,  to  Holyhead,  which  place  Fitzalan 
announced  as  they  entered  it.  And  now,  Amanda  first  con- 
ceived the  idea  of  being  brought  to  another  kingdom,  which  her 
father  soon  confirmed  her  in — for,  as  soon  as  they  alighted,  he 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


$3 

inquired  when  a packet  would  sail,  and  heard  with  evident 
pleasure  about  six  in  the  afternoon.  He  directly  desired  three 
passages  to  be  engaged ; and,  having  ordered  an  early  dinner, 
dismissed  Ellen  into  another  room  ; and  seating  himself  by 
Amanda,  he  took  her  hand,  and  with  a tender  voice  thus  ad- 
dressed her : “To  give  pain  to  your  gentle  heart  has  inflicted 
torture  on  mine ; but  honor  compelled  me  to  the  conduce:  which 
I have  adopted,  and  which,  I trust  and  believe,  Amanda  will 
excuse  when  she  knows  my  motive  for  it,  which  in  due  order 
she  shall  hear. 

“ On  Lord  Cherbury^s  arrival  in  town,  I was  immtidiately 
informed  of  it,  according  to  the  promise  of  his  domestics,  and 
directly  sent  him  my  letter ; scarcely  had  he  read  it,  eie,  with 
all  the  ardor  of  true  friendship,  he  came  and  brought  mxi  to  his 
house,  where  we  might  securely  reflect  on  what  was  to  be  done. 
His  lordship  soon  formed  a plan  that  at  once  inspired  me  with 
gratitude  and  pleasure,  as  it  promised  me  competence  without 
depriving  me  of  independence — this  was  to  accept  the  agency  of 
a considerable  estate  in  the  north  of  Ireland,  which  he  possessed 
in  right  of  his  wife,  the  late  Countess  of  Cherbury,  who  was  an 
Irish  heiress.  He  proposed  my  residing  in  the  mansion  house, 
offering  to  advance  a sum  sufficient  to  answer  all  demands  and 
exigencies ; and  striving  to  lighten  the  obligations  he  conferred 
upon  me,  by  declaring  he  had  long  been  seeking  a man  of  well- 
known  probity,  as  his  last  agent  had  gone  off  considerably  in 
arrears  to  him.  I accepted  his  generous  offer,  and  soon  freed 
myself  from  the  power  of  Belgrave.  I now  felt  a tranquillity  I 
was  long  a stranger  to,  and  was  busied  in  preparing  to  come 
down  to  you,  when  Lord  Mortimer’s  letter,  like  a clap  of  thun- 
der, broke  the  happy  calm  I enjoyed.  Gracious  heaven!  I 
shuddered  to  think,  that  at  the  very  period  Lord  Cherbury  was 
building  up,  my  fortunes,  the  hopes  he  entertained  for  this  dar- 
ling son  were  in  a way  of  being  destroyed,  through  means  of  a 
connection  of  mine  ; he  had  hinted  to  me  his  having  already 
settled  upon  a splendid  alliance  for  Lord  Mortimer,  which  he 
also  hinted  his  heart  was  set  on  : this  the  infatuated  young 
man  had  himself  some  knowledge  of  ; for  in  his  rash  letter 
he  entreated  my  secrecy  relative  to  his  proposal  for  you  till 
beyond  the  reach  of  mortals  to  separate'  you : no  doubt  he 
would  never  have  asked  my  consent,  had  he  thought  he  could 
have  procured  you  without  it ; he  took  me,  I suppose,  for  some 
needy  and  ambitious  creature,  who  would,  though  at  the  ex- 
pense of  integrity,  grasp  an  opportunity  of  elevating  a child  td 
rank  and  fortune ; but  never  was_an  erring  mortal  more  misf 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


83 

token,  though  dearer  to  me  than  the  air  I breathe — though  the 
iovely  child  of  my  .ost  Malvina — though  a cherubim,  whose  in* 
nocent  endearments  often  raised  in  me,  as  Prospero  says — 

An  undergoing  stomach — to  bear  up 

Against  what  should  ensue. 

I would  rather  see  you  breathless  at  my  feet,  than,  by  conscious^ 
and  apparent  meanness,  deserve  ’and  incur  the  malevolence  of 
calumny.  I committed  the  letter  to  the  flames,  and  requested 
Lord  Cherbury’s  final  commands ; being  desirous  to  commence 
my  journey  without  longer  delay,  as  your  delicate  state  of  health, 
I said,  made  me  anxious  to  have  you  immediately  under  my 
own  care  ; he  complied  with  my  request,  and  I travelled  post, 
resolved  to  separate  you  and  Lord  Mortimer — even  if  prepared 
for  the  altar  : nor  was  I alone  actuated  to  this  by  gratitude  to 
Lord  Cherbury,  or  consideration  for  my  own  honor — no,  with 
these,  a regard  for  your  peace  equally  influenced  me — a soul  of 
sensibility  and  refinement  like  yours  could  never,  I know,  be 
happy  if  treated  with  repulsive  coldness  by  the  family  of  her 
husband  ; particularly  if  her  conscience  told  her  she  merited 
that  coldness  by  entering  it  clandestinely.  Could  I bear  to 
think  that  of  you — so  lovely  in  person — so  amiable  in  manners 
— so  illustrious  in  descent — should  be  called  an  artful  and 
necessitous  contriver  ? an  imputation,  which,  most  undoubtedly, 
your  union  with  Lord  Mortimer  would  have  incurred.  No,  to 
the  God  who  gave  you  to  my  care,  I hold  myself  responsible,  as 
far  as  in  my  power,  for  preserving  your  peace — to  the  mother, 
whose  last  words  implored  my  tenderness  for  her  offspring,  I 
hold  myself  accountable — to  me  she  still  exists — I think  hei 
ever  near- — and  ere  I act,  always  reflect  whether  such  an  action 
would  meet  her  approbation.  Such  is  the  respect  virtue  excites 
— it  lives  when  the  frail  texture  of  mortality  is  dissolved.  Your 
attachment,  when  repelled  by  reason  and  fortitude,  will  soon 
vanish  ; as  for  Lord  Mortimer,  removed  from  the  flame  which 
warmed  his  heart,  he  will  soon  forget  it  ever  played  around  it 
— should  he,  however,  be  daring  enough  to  persevere,  he  will 
find  my  resolution  unalterable.  Honor  is  the  only  heredi- 
tary possession  that  ever  came  to  me  uninjured  ; to  preserve 
it  in  the  same  state  has  been  ever  my  unremitted  study — it 
iradiated  the  gloomy  morning  of  care,  and  I trust  it  will  gild 
the  setting  hours  of  existence.’^ 

Amanda’s  emotions  deprived  her  of  speech  or  acting — she 
sat  a pale  statue,  listening  to  her  father’s  firm  and  rapid  lan- 
guage, which  announced  the  abolition  of  her  hopes ; ignorant 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


84 

of  her  *nability  to  speak,  he  felt  hurt  at  her  silence  ; and  rising 
abruptly,  walked  about  the  room  with  a disordered  air.  I 
see — I see,  cried  he  at  last,  looking  mournfully  upon  her,  “ I 
am  destined  to  be  unhappy;  the  little  treasure  which  remained 
from  the  wreck  of  felicity,  I had  hoped  (vain  hope  ! ) would 
have  comforted  and  consoled  me  for  what  then  was  lost.’’ 
‘‘  Oh  ! my  father  ! ” exclaimed  Amanda,  suddenly  starting  and 
sighing  deeply,  how  you  pierce  my  heart ! ” His  pale,  ema- 
ciated looks  seemed  to  declare  him  sinking  beneath  a bun 
den  of  care  ; she  started  up,  and  flung  herself  into  his  arms. 

Dearest,  best  of  fathers  ! ” she  exclaimed,  in  a voice  broken 
by  sobs,  what  is  all  the  world  to  me  in  comparison  of  you  "t 
Shall  I put  Lord  Mortimer,  so  lately  a stranger,,  in  competi- 
tion with  your  happiness  ? Oh  no  ! I will  henceforth  try  to 
regulate  every  impulse  of  my  heart  according  to  your  wishes.” 
Fitzalan  burst  into  tears — the  enthusiasm  of  virtue  warmed 
them  both — hallowed  are  her  raptures,  and  amply  do  they  rec- 
ompense the  pain  attendant  on  her  sacrifices. 

Dinner  was  brought  in,  to  which  they  sat  down  in  their 
usual  social  manner;  and  Amanda,  happy  in  her  father’s 
smiles,  felt  a ray  of  returning  cheerfulness.  The  evening  was 
delightfully  serene  when  they  went  on  board,  and  the  vessel, 
Vvdth  a gentle  motion,  glided  over  the  glittering  waves ; sick- 
ness soon  compelled  Amanda  and  Ellen  to  retire  from  the 
deck ; yet  without  a sigh,  the  former  could  not  relinquish  the 
prospect  of  the  Welsh  mountains.  By  the  dawn  of  next  morn- 
ing the  vessel  entered  the  bay  of  Dublin,  and  Fitzalan  shortly 
after  brought  Amanda  from  the  cabin  to  contemplate  a scene 
which  far  surpassed  all  her  ideas  of  sublimity  and  beauty,  a 
scene  which  the  rising  sun  soon  heightened  to  the  most  glow- 
ing radiance  ; they  landed  at  the  Marine  Hotel,  where  they 
breakfasted,  and  then  proceeded  in  a carriage  to  a hotel  in 
Capel  street,  where  they  proposed  staying  a few  days  for  the 
purpose  of  enjoying  Oscar’s  company,  whose  regiment  was 
quartered  in  Dublin,  and  making  some  requisite  purchases  for 
their  journey  to  the  north.  As  the  carriage  drove  down  Capel 
street,  Amanda  saw  a young  officer  standing  at  the  corner  of 
Mary’s  Abbey,  whose  air  very  much  resembled  Oscar’s ; her 
heart  palpitated  ; she  looked  out  and  perceived  the  resem- 
blance was  a just  one,  for  it  was  Oscar  himself — the  carriage 
passed  too  swiftly  for  him  to  recognize  her  face ; but  he  was 
astonished  to  see  a fair  hand  waving  to  him  ; he  walked  down 
the  street,  and  reached  the  hotel  just  as  they  were  entering  it. 


THE  CHILDREN-  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


H 


CHAPTER  X. 

“And  whence,  unhappy  youth,  he  cried, 

The  sorrow  of  thy  breast?  ” — Goldsmith. 

The  raptures  of  this  meeting  surpassed  description:  to 
Oscar  they  were  heightened  by  surprise  ; he  was  unfortunately 
that  day  on  guard  at  the  JBank — therefore  could  only  pay  them 
a few  short  and  stolen  visits  ; but  the  next  morning,  the  moment 
he  was  relieved,  he  came  to  them.  Fitzalan  had  given  Amanda 
money  to  purchase  whatever  she  deemed  necessary  for  her 
convenience  and  amusement,  and  Oscar  attended  her  to  the 
most  celebrated  shops  to  make  her  purchases  : having  sup- 
plied herself  with  a pretty  fashionable  assortment  for  her  ward- 
robe, she  procured  a small  collection  of  books,  sufficient,  how- 
ever, from  their  excellence,  to  form  a little  library  in  them- 
selves, and  every  requisite  for  drawing ; nor  did  she  forget  the 
little  wants  and  vanities  of  Ellen  ; they  returned  about  dinner 
time  to  the  hotel,  where  they  found  their  father,  who  had  been 
transacting  business  for  Lord  Cherbufy  in  different  parts  of 
the  town.  We  may  now  suppose  him  in  the  possession  of 
happiness,  blessed  as  he  was  in  the  society  of  his  children,  and 
the  certainty  of  a competence  ; but,  alas  ! happiness  has  al- 
most ever  an  attendant  drawback,  and  he  now  experienced  one 
of  the  most  corroding  kind  from  the  alteration  he  witnessed  in 
his  son.  Oscar  was  improved  in  his  person,  but  his  eyes  no 
longer  beamed  with  animation,  and  the  rose  upon  his  cheek 
was  pale ; his  cheerfulness  no  longer  appeared  spontaneous, 
but  constrained,  as  if  assumed  for  the  purpose  of  veiling  deep 
and  heartfelt  sorrow. 

Fitzalan,  with  all  the  anxiety  and  tenderness  of  a parent, 
delicately  expressed  his  wish  of  learning  the  source  of  his  un- 
easiness, that  by  so  doing  he  might  be  better  qualified  to  alle- 
viate it,  hinting  at  the  same  time,  in  indirect  terms,  that  it 
occasioned  by  any  of  the  imprudences  which  youth  is  some- 
times inadvertently  led  into,  he  would  readily  excuse  them,  from 
a certainty  that  he  who  repented  never  would  again  commit 
them.  Oscar  started  from  the  remotest  hint  of  divulging  his  un 
easiness : he  begged  his  father,,  however,  to  believe  (since  he 
had  unfortunately  perceived  it)  that  it  was  not  derived  from 
imprudence  : he  pretended  to  say  it  was  but  a slight  chagrin, 


86 


rilE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY- 


which  would  soon  wear  away  of  itself  if  not  renewed  bj 
inquiries.  Fitzalan,  however,  was  too  much  affected  by  the 
subject  to  drop  it  as  readily  as  Oscar  wished.  After  regarding 
him  for  a few  minutes  with  an  attention  as  mournful  as  fixed, 
while  they  sat  round  the  table  after  dinner,  he  suddenly  ex- 
claimed, ‘‘Alas  1 my  dear  boy,  I fear  things  are  worse  within 
than  you  will  allow.^’  “ Now,  indeed,  Oscar  ’’  cried  Amanda, 
sweetly  smiling  on  him,  anxious  to  relieve  him  from  the  embar- 
rassment these  words  had  involved  him  in,  and  to  dissipate  the 
deep  gloom  of  her  father’s  brow,  “ though  never  in  the  wars,  I 
fancy  you  are,  not  quite  heart  whole.”  He  answered  her  with 
affected  gayety,  but,  as  if  wishing  to  change  the  discourse, 
suddenly  spoke  of  Colonel  Belgrave,  who,  at  present,  he  said, 
was  absent  of  the  regiment ; occupied  by  his  own  feelings,  he 
observed  not  the  glow  which  mantled  the  cheeks  of  his  father 
and  sister  at  that  name. 

“You  know  Mrs.  Belgrave,”  said  Amanda,  endeavoring  to 
regain  her  composure.  “Know  her  !”  repeated  he,  with  an 
involuntary  sigh,  “oh,  yes  I ” Then,  after  the  pause  of  a few 
minutes,  turning  to  his  father,  “ I believe  I have  already  informed 
you,  sir,”  he  said,  “ that  she  is  the  daughter  of  your  brave  old 
friend.  General  Honeywood,  who,  I assure  you,  paid  me  no 
little  attention  on  your  account ; his  housQ  is  quite  the  temple 
i)f  hospitality,  and  she  the  little  presiding  goddess.”  “ She  is 
happy,  I hope,”  said  Amanda.  “ Oh,  surely,”  replied  Oscar, 
little  thinking  of  the  secret  motive  his  sister  had  for  asking 
such  a question,  “ she  possesses  what  the  world  thinks  neces- 
sary to  constitute  felicity.” 

Fitzalan  had  accounted  to  his  son  for  leaving  Devonshire, 
by  saying  the  air  had  disagreed  with  Amanda  ; he  told  him  of 
the  friendship  of  Lord  Cherbury,  from  which  he  said  he  trusted 
shortly  to  be  able  to  have  him  promoted.  “ Be  assured,  my 
dear  Oscar,”  he  cried,  “most  willingly  would  I relinquish  many 
of  the  comforts  of  life  to  attain  the  ability  of  hastening  your 
advancement,  or  adding  to  your  happiness.”  “ My  happiness  ! ” 
Oscar  mournfully  repeated  ; tears  filled  his  eyes  ; he  could  no 
longer  restrain  them  ; and  starting  up,  hurried  to  a window. 
Amanda  followed,  unutterably  affected  at  his  emotion  : Oscar, 
my  dear  Oscar,”  said  she  as  she  flung  her  arms  round  his  neck, 
“ you  distress  me  beyond  example.”  He  sat  down,  and  lean 
ing  his  head  on  her  bosom,  as  she  stood  before  him,  his  tears 
fell  through  her  handkerchief.  “ Oh,  heavens  ! ” exclaimed 
Fitzalan,  clasping  his  hands  together,  “ what  a sight  is  this  I 
Ob  I my  children,  from  your  felicity  alone  could  I ever  derive 


THE  CIULDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


87 

any ; if  the  hope  I entertained  of  that  felicity  is  disappointed, 
the  heart  which  cherished  it  must  soon  be  silent.’^  He  arose 
and  went  to  them  : yet,’’  continued  he,  “ amidst  the  anguish 
of  this  moment,  I feel  a ray  of  pleasure  at  perceiving  an  affection 
so  strong  and  tender  between  you  ; it  will  be  a mutual  consola- 
tion and  support  when  the  feeble  help  and  protection  I can 
give  is  finally  removed  ; oh ! then,  my  Oscar,”  he  proceeded, 
while  he  folded  their  united  hands  in  his,  become  the  soothing 
friend  and  guardian  of  this  dear,  this  amiable,  this  too  lovely 
girl — let  her  not  too  severely  feel — too  bitterly  mourn — the  loss 
of  an  unhappy  father  ! ” 

Amanda’s  tears  began  to  stream,  and  Oscar’s  for  a few 
minutes  were  increased.  “ Excuse  me,”  at  last  he  said,  making 
an  effort  to  exert  himself,  to  his  father,  ‘‘  and  be  assured,  to  the 
utmost  of  my  ability,  I will  ever  obey  your  wishes,  and  fulfil 
your  expectations  ; I am  ashamed  of  the  weakness  I have 
betrayed — I will  yield  to  it  no  more — forget  therefore  your 
having  seen  it,  or  at  least  remember  it  with  pain,  as  I solemnly 
assure  you,  no  effort  on  my  part  shall  be  untried  to  conquer  it 
entirely  ; and  now  let  the  short  time  we  have  to  continue  together 
be  devoted  to  cheerfulness.” 

Soon  after  this  he  mentioned  Parker’s  performance  in  Marl- 
borough Green,  and  proposed,  as  it  was  now  the  hour,  taking 
Amanda  there ; the  proposal  was  not  objected  to,  and  Ellen, 
who  they  knew  would  particularly  delight  in  such  an  amusement, 
was  committed  to  the  care  of  Oscar’s  servant,  a smart  young 
soldier,  who  escorted  her  with  much  gallantry ; the  Green  was 
extremely  crowded,  particularly  with  officers,  whose  wandering 
glances  were  soon  attracted  to  Amanda,  as  one  of  the  most 
elegant  girls  present.  Oscar  was  soon  surrounded  by  them, 
and  compelled,  not  only  to  gratify  their  curiosity  by  discovering 
who  she  was,  iDut  their  gallantry  bv  introducing  them  to  her. 
Their  compliments  soon  diverted  her  attention  from  the  ex- 
hibition, and  Ellen,  who  sat  behind  her  on  a bench,  afforded 
innocent  mirth  by  her  remarks.  Pless  her  soul  and  poty  too,” 
she  said,  it  was  the  most  con  ica  and  wonderfulest  sight 
she  had  ever  seen  in  her  porn  days.”  A string  of  redcoats 
would  have  attended  Amanda  to  the  hotel  had  not  Oscar  pre- 
vented it. 

The  next  day  was  devoted  to  visiting  the  public  buildings, 
the  park,  and  a few  of  the  most  beautiful  places  in  its  vicinage. 
On  the  ensuing  morn  Fitzalan  and  Amanda  continued  their 
journey  to  the  north,  where  Oscar  assured  them  he  expected 
leave  to  visit  them  the  following  summer,  after  tht  reviews 


88 


THE  IIILDREiV  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


were  over : as  lie  helped  his  sister  i^i  the  carriage  she  put  ^ 
pocket-book  into  his  hand  (given  by  her  father  for  that  purpose), 
which  contained  something  to  replenish  his  purse. 

Ere  we  attend  the  travellers,  or  rather  while  they  are  jour* 
neying  along,  we  shall  endeavor  to  account  for  the  dejection  ol 
Oscar. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


**  From  the  loud  camp  retired  and  noisy  court. 

In  honorable  ease  and  rural  sport; 

The  remnant  of  his  days  he  safely  passed, 

Nor  found  they  lagged  too  slow  nor  flew  too  fast. 

He  made  his  wish  with  his  estate  comply, 

Joyful  to  live,  yet  not  afraid  to  die  ; 

One  child  he  had — a daughter  chaste  and  fair, 

His  age's  comfort,  and  his  fortune’s  heir.” — Prior. 

Oscar’s  regiment,  on  his  first  joining  it  in  Ireland,  was* 
quartered  in  Enniskillen,  the  corps  was  agreeable,  and  the  in- 
habitants of  the  town  hospitable  and  polite.  He  felt  all  the 
delight  of  a young  and  enterprising  mind,  at  entering,  what 
appeared  to  him,  the  road  to  glory  and  pleasure ; many  of  his 
idle  mornings  were  spent,  in  rambling  about  the  country, 
sometimes  accompanied  by  a party  of  officers,  and  sometimes 
alone. 

In  one  of  his  solidary  excursions  along  the  beautiful  banks 
of  Lough  Erne,  with  a light  fusee  on  his  shoulder,  as  the  woods, 
that  almost  descended  to  the  very  edge  of  the  water,  abounded 
in  game  ; after  proceeding  a few  miles  he  felt  quite  exhausted 
by  the  heat,  which,  as  it  was  now  the  middle  of  summer,  was 
intense  ; at  a little  distance  he  perceived  an  orchard,  whose 
glowing  apples  promised  a delightful  repast ; knowing  that  the 
fruit  in  many  of  the  neighboring  places  was  kept  for  sale,  he 
resolved  on  trying  if  any  was  to  be  purchased  here,  and  accord- 
ingly opened  a small  gate,  and  ascended  through  a grass-grown 
path  in  the  orchard,  to  a very  plain  white  cottage,  which  stood 
upon  a gentle  sloping  lawn,  surrounded  by  a rude  paling,  he 
knocked  against  the  door  with  his  fusee,  and  immediately  a 
little  rosy  girl  appeared ; tell  me,  my  pretty  lass,”  cried  he, 
‘‘whether  I can  purchase  any  of  the  fine  apples  I see  here.” 
“ Anan  ! ” exclaimed  the  girl  with  a foolish  stare.  Oscar 
glancing  at  that  moment  into  the  passage,  saw,  from  a half- 
opened  door,  nearly  opposite  to  the  one  at  which  he  stood,  a 


f 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  89 

beautiful  fair  face  peeping  out ; he  involuntarily  started,  and 
pushing  aside  the  girl,  made  a step  into  the  passage  ; the  room 
door  directly  opened,  and  an  elderly  woman,  of  a genteel  figure 
and  pleasing  countenance,  appeared.  Good  Heaven  ! ’’  cried 
Oscar,  taking  off  his  hat,  and  retreating,  “ I fear  I have  been 
guilty  of  the  highest  impertinence  ; the  only  apology  I can  offer 
for  it  is  by  saying  it  was  not  intentional.  I am  quite  a stranger 
here,  and  having  been  informed  most  of  the  orchards  hereabouts 
contained  fruits  for  sale,  I intruded  under  that  idea.’’  “Your 
mistake,  sir,”  she  replied  with  a benevolent  smile,  “ is  too  trifling 
to  require  an  apology ; nor  shall  it  be  attended  with  any  dis- 
appointment to  you.” 

She  then  politely  showed  him  into  the  parlor,  where,  with 
equal  pleasure  and  admiration,  he  contemplated  the  fair  being 
of  whom  before  he  had  but  a transient  glance  : she  appeared 
to  be  scarcely  seventeen,  and  was,  both  as  to  face  and  figure^ 
what  a painter  would  have  chosen  to  copy  for  the  portrait  of  a 
little  playful  Hebe  ; though  below  even  the  middle  size,  she 
was  formed  with  the  nicest  symmetry ; her  skin  was  of  a dazzling 
fairness,  and  so  transparent,  that  the  veins  were  clearly  dis- 
cernible ; the  softest  blush  of  nature  shaded  her  beautifully- 
rounded  cheeks  ; her  mouth  was  small  and  pouting,  and  when- 
ever she  smiled  a thousand  graces  sported  round  it ; her  eyes 
were  full  and  of  a heavenly  blue,  soft,  yet  animated,  giving,  like 
the  expression  of  her  whole  countenance,  at  once  an  idea  of 
Innocence,  spirit,  and  sensibility  ; her  hair,  of  the  pglest  and 
most  glossy  brown,  hung  carelessly  about  her,  and,  though 
dressed  in  a loose  morning-gown  of  muslin,  she  possessed  an 
air  of  fashion  and  even  consequence  ; the  easy  manner  in  which  / 
she  bore  the  looks  of  Oscar,  proclaimed  her  at  once  not  un- 
accustomed to  admiration,  nor  displeased  with  that  she  now 
received  ; for  that  Oscar  admired  her  could  not  but  be  visible, 
and  he  sometimes  fancied  he  saw  an  arch  smile  playing  over 
her  features,  at  the  involuntary  glances  he  directed  towards  her. 

A fine  basket  of  apples,  and  some  delicious  cider,  was  brought 
to  Oscar,  and  he  found  his  entertainer  as  hospitable  in  disposi- 
tion as  she  was  pleasing  in  conversation. 

The  beautiful  interior  of  the  cottage  by  no  means  corre- 
sponded with  the  plainness  of  the  exterior ; the  furniture  was 
elegantly  neat,  and  the  room  ornamented  with  a variety  of  fine 
prints  and  landscapes  j a large  folding  glass  door  opened  from 
it  into  a pleasure-garden. 

Adela,  so  was  the  charming  young  stranger  called,  chatted 
In  the  most  lively  and  familiar  terms,  and  at  last  running  over 


90 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


to  the  basket,  tossed  the  apples  all  about  the  table,  and  picking 
out  the  finest  presented  them  to  Oscar.  It  is  scarcely  necessary 
to  say  he  received  them  with  emotion  : but  how  transient  is  all 
sublunary  bliss  ! A cuckoo-clock,  over  Oscar’s  head,  by  striking 
three,  reminded  him  that  he  had  passed  near  two  hours  in  the 
cottage.  ‘‘  Oh,  Heavens  ! ” cried  he,  starting,  I have  made  a 
most  unconscionable  intrusion  ; you  see,  my  dear  ladies,”  bow- 
ing respectfully  to  both,  the  consequence  of  being  too  polite 
and  too  fascinating.”  He  repeated  his  thanks  in  the  most 
animated  manner,  and  snatching  up  his  hat,  departed,  yet  not 
without  casting 

“ One  longing,  lingering  look  behind.’^ 

The  sound  of  footsteps  after  him  in  the  lawn  made  him  turn, 
and  he  perceived  the  ladies  had  followed  him  thither.  He 
stopped  again  to  speak  to  them,  and  extolled  the  lovely  pros- 
pect they  had  from  that  eminence  of  the  lake  and  its  scattered 
islands.  I presume,”  said  Adela,  handling  the  fusee  on  which 
he  leaned,  ‘‘  you  were  trying  your  success  to-day  in  fowling  'I  ” 
‘‘Yes;  but,  as  you  may  perceive,  I have  been  unsuccessful.” 
“ Then,  I assure  you,”  said  she,  with  an  arch  smile,  “ there  is 
choice  game  to  be  found  in  our  woods.”  “ Delicious  game, 
indeed  1 ” cried  he^  interpreting  the  archness  of  her  look,  and 
animated  by  it  to  touch  her  hand,  “ but  only  tantalizing  to 
a keen  sportsman,  who  sees  it  elevated  above  his  reach.” 
“ Come,  come,”  exclaimed  the  old  lady,  with  a sudden  gravity, 
“we  are  detaining  the  gentleman.”  She  took  her  fair  com- 
panion by  the  arm,  and  hastily  turned  to  the  cottage.  OsesJ. 
gazed  after  them  a moment,  then,  with  a half-smothered  sigh, 
descended  to  the  road.  He  could  not  help  thinking  this  incident 
of  the  morning  very  like  the  novel  adventures  he  had  sometimes 
read  to  his  sister  Amanda  as  she  sat  at  work ; and,  to  complete 
the  resemblance,  thought  he,  I must  fall  in  love  with  the  little 
heroine.  Ah  ! Oscar,  beware  of  such  imprudence  ! guard  your 
heart  with  all  your  care  against  tender  impressions,  till,  fortune 
has  been  more  propitious  to  you  ! Thus  would  my  father  speak, 
mused  Oscar,  and  set  his  own  misfortunes  in  terrible  arra;^ 
before  me,  were  he  now  present : well,  I must  endeavor  to  ad 
as  if  he  were  here  to  exhort  me.  Heigh  ho!  proceeded  he, 
shouldering  his  fusee,  glory  for  some  time  to  come  must  be 
my  mistress  1 

The  next  morning  the  fusee  was  again  taken  down,  and  he 
sallied  out,  carefully  avoiding  the  officers,  lest  any  of  them 
should  offer  to  accompany  him  ; for  he  felt  a strange  reluctance 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


9t 


to  their  participating  in  either  the  smiles  of  Adela  or  the  apples 
of  the  old  lady.  Upon  his  arrival  at  the  orchard,  finding  the 
gate  open,  he  advanced  a few  steps  up  the  path,  and  had  a 
glimpse  of  the  cottage,  but  no  object  was  visible.  Oscar  was 
too  modest  to  attempt  entering  it  uninvited ; he  therefore 
turned  back,  yet.  often  cast  a look  behind  him  ; no  one,  how- 
ever, was  to  be  seen.  He  now  began  to  feel  thedieat  oppres- 
sive, and  himself  fatigued  with  his  walk,  and  sat  down  upon  a 
moss-covered  stone,  on  the  margin  of  the  lake,  at  a little  dis- 
tance from  the  cottage,  beneath  the  spreading  branches  of  a 
hawthorn ; his  hat  and  fusee  were  laid  at  his  feet,  and  a cool 
breeze  from  the  water  refreshed  him  ; upon  its  smooth  surface 
a number  of  boats  and  small  sail-vessels  were  now  gliding  about 
in  various  directions,  and  enlivened  the  enchanting  prospect 
which  was  spread  upon  the  bosom  of  the  lake  ; from  contem- 
plating it  he  was  suddenly  roused  by  the  warble  of  a female 
voice ; he  started,  turned,  and  beheld  Adela  just  by  him. 

Bless  me  ! ” cried  she,  who  would  have  thought  of  seeing 
you  here  ; why,  you  look  quite  fatigued,  and,  I believe,  want 
apples  to-day  as  much  as  you  did  yesterday  ? Then,  sitting 
down  on  the  seat  he  had  resigned,  she  tossed  off  her  bonnet, 
declaring  it  was  in  supportably  warm,  and  began  rummaging  a 
small  work-bag  she  held  on  her  arm.  Oscar  snatching  the 
bonnet  from  the  ground,  Adela  flung  apples  into  it,  observing 
it  would  make  an  excellent  basket.  He  sat  down  at  her  feet, 
and  never,  perhaps,  felt  such  a variety  of  emotions  as  at  the 
present  moment : his  cheeks  glowed  with  a brighter  color,  and 
his  eyes  were  raised  to  hers  with  the  most  ardent  admiration  ; 
yet  not  to  them  alone  could  he  confine  the  expression  of  his 
feelings  ; they  broke  in  half-formed  sentences  from  his  lips, 
which  Adela  heard  with  the  most  perfect  composure,  desiring 
him  either  to  eat  or  pocket  his  apples  quickly,  as  she  wanted 
her  bonnet,  being  in  a great  hurry  to  return  to  the  cottage,  from 
which  she  had  made  a kind  of  stolen  march.  The  apples  were 
instantly  committed  to  his  pocket,  and  he  was  permitted  to  tie 
on  the  bonnet.  A depraved  man  might  have  misinterpreted 
the  gayety  of  Adela,  or  at  least  endeavored  to  take  advantage 
of  it ; but  the  sacred  impression  of  virtue,  which  nature  and 
education  had  stamped  upon  the  heart  of  Oscar,  was  indelibly 
fixed,  and  he  neither  suspected,  nor,  for  worlds,  would  have 
attempted  injuring,  the  innocence  of  Adela  : he  beheld  her  (in 
what  indeed  was  a true  light)  as  a little  playful  nymph,  whose 
actions  were  the  offspring  of  innocence. 

“ I assure  you,”  exclaimed  she,  rising,  “ I am  very  loath  to 


92 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEK^ 


quit  this  pleasant  seat ; but,  if  I make  a much  longer  delay,  1 
shall  find  the  lady  of  the  cottage  in  anxious  expectation.’’ 

May  I advance  ? ” said  Oscar,  as  he  pushed  open  the  gate  for 
her.  If  you  do,”  replied  she,  the  least  that  will  be  said 
from  seeing  us  together,  is,  that  we  were  in  search  of  each  other 
the  whole  of  the  morning.”  Well,”  cried  Oscar,  laughing  at 
this  careless  speech,  “ and  if  they  do  say  so,  it  would  not  be 
doing  me  injustice.”  ‘‘  Adieu,  adieu,”  said  she,  waving  her 
hand,  not  another  word  for  a kingdom.” 

What  a compound  of  beauty  and  giddiness  it  is ! thought 
Oscar,  watching  her  till  she  entered  the  cottage.  As  he  re- 
turned from  the  sweet  spot  he  met  soipe  laborers,  from  whom 
he  inquired  concerning  its  owner,  and  learned  she  was  a respect' 
able  widow  lady  of  the  name  of  Marlowe. 

On  Oscar’s  return  from  Enniskillen,  he  heard  from  the 
officers  that  General  Honey  wood,  an  old  veteran,  who  had  a 
fine  estate  about  fourteen  miles  from  the  town,  was  that  morn- 
ing to  pay  his  compliments  to  them,  and  that  cards  had  been 
left  for  a grand  fete  and  ball,  which  he  annually  gave  on  the  i^t 
of  July,  to  commemorate  one  of  the  glorious  victories  of  King 
William.  Every  person  of  any  fashion  in  and  about  the  neigh- 
borhood was  on  such  occasions  sure  of  an  invitation  ; and 
the  officers  were  pleased  with  theirs,  as  they  had  for  some  time 
wished  for  an  opportunity  of  seeing  the  general’s  da?>ghtor>  v/hc 
was  very  much  admired. 

The  general,  like  a true  veteran,  retained  an  enthusiastic 
attachment  for  the  profession  of  arms,  to  which  not  only  the 
morning,  but  the  meridian  of  his  life  had  been  devoted,  and 
which  he  had  not  quitted  till  compelled  by  a debilitated  com 
stitution.  Seated  in  his  paternal  mansion  he  began  to  experl 
ence  the  want  of  a faithful  companion,  who  would  heighten  th^ 
enjoyments  of  the  tranquil  hour,  and  soothe  the  infirmities 
of  age  : this  want  was  soon  supplied  by  his  union  with  a youn^ 
lady  in  the  neighborhood,  whose  only  dowry  was  innocence  ana 
beauty.  From  the  great  disparity  of  their  ages  it  was  concluded 
she  had  married  for  convenience  ; but  the  tenor  of  her  conduct 
changed  this  opinion,  by  proving  the  general  possessed  her 
tenderest  affections  : a happier  couple  were  not  known ; but 
this  happiness  was  terminated  as  suddenly  as  fatally  by  her 
death,  which  happened  two  years  after  the  birth  of  her  daughter ; 
all  the  general’s  love  was  then  centred  in  her  child.  Many  of 
the  ladies  in  the  neighborhood,  induced  by  the  well-known 
felicity  his  lady  had  enjoyed,  or  oy  the  largeness  of  nistortunc, 
made  attempts  to  engage  him  again  in  matrimonial  toils ; but 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


93 


he  fought  %hy  of  them  all,  solemnly  declaring,  “ he  would  never 
bring  a stepmother  over  his  dear  girl.’’  In  her  infancy,  she  was 
his  plaything,  and  as-  she  grew  up  his  comfort ; caressed,  flat- 
tered, adored  from  her  childhood,  she  scarcely  knew  the  mean- 
ing of  harshness  and  contradiction  ; a naturally  sweet  disposition, 
and  the  superintending  care  of  an  excell’ent  woman,  prevented 
any  pernicious  effect  from  such  excessive  indulgence  as  she  re- 
ceived ; to  disguise  or  duplicity  she  was  a perfect  stranger  ; her 
own  feelings  were  never  concealed,  and  others  she  supposed 
equally  sincere  in  revealing  theirs : true,  the  open  avowal  of  her 
regard  or  contempt  often  incurred  the  imputation  of  impru- 
dence ; but  had  she  even  heard  it  she  would  have  only  laughed 
at  it — for  the  general  declared  whatever  she  said  was  right,  and 
her  own  heart  assured  her  of  the  innocence  of  her  intentions. 
As  she  grew  up  the  house  again  became  the  seat  of  gayety  ; the 
general,  though  very  infirm,  felt  ‘^his  convivial  spirit  revive  ; 
he  delighted  in  the  society  of  his  friends,  and  could  still 

“ Shoulder  his  crutch,  and  show  how  fields  were  won  ! ” 

Oscar,  actuated  by  an  impulse,  which  if  he  could,  he,  at 
least,  did  not  strive  to  account  for,  continued  daily  to  parade 
before  the  orchard,  but  without  again  seeing  Adela. 

At  length  the  day  for  General  Honeywood’s  entertainment 
arrived,  and  the  officers,  accompanied  by  a large  party,  set  off 
early  for  Woodlawn,  the  name  of  the  general’s  seat.  It  was 
situated  on  the  borders  of  the  lake,  where  they  found  barges 
waiting  to  convey  them  to  a small  island,  which  was  the  scene 
of  the  morning’s  amusement : the  breakfast  was  laid  out  amidst 
the  ruins  of  an  ancient  building,  which,  from  the  venerable  re- 
mains of  its  gothic  elegance,  was  most  probably,  in  the  days  of 
religious  enthusiasm,  the  seat  of  sacred  piety  : the  old  trees  in 
groups  formed  a thick  canopy  overhead,  and  the  ivy  that  crept 
along  the  walls  filled  up  many  of  the  niches  where  the  windows 
had  formerly  been  ; those  that  still  remained  open,  by  descend- 
ffig  to  the  ground,  afforded  a most  enchanting  prospect  of  the 
lake  ; the  long  succession  of  arches,  which  composed  the  body 
of  the  chapel,  were  in  many  places  covered  with  creeping  moss, 
and  scattered  over  with  wall-flowers,  blue  hair-bells,  and  other 
spontaneous  productions  of  nature ; while  between  them  were 
placed  seats  and  breakfast-tables,  ornamented  in  a fanciful 
manner. 

The  officers  experienced  a most  agreeable  surprise  on 
entering ; but  how  inferior  were  their  feelings  to  the  sensations 
which  Oscar  felt,  when,  introduced  with  the  party  by  the 


THE  CHILD  RE H OF  THE  ABBEY, 


94 

general  to  his  daughter,  he  beheld  in  Miss  HoneWood  the 
lovely  Adela!  She  seemed  to  enjoy  his  surprise,  and  Mrs. 
Marlowe,  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  beckoned  him  to 
her  with  an  arch  look  ; he  flew  round,  and  she  made  room  for 
him  by  herself:  ‘‘Well,  my  friend,’’  cried  she,  “do  you  think 
you  shall  find  the  general’s  fruit  as  tempting  as  mine  ? ” 
“ Ah  ! ” exclaimed  Oscar,  half  sighing,  half  smiling,  “ Hesperian 
fruit,  I fear,  which  I can  never  hope  to  obtain.”  Adela’s  ar- 
tention,  during  breakfast,  was  too  much  engrossed  by  the  conv 
pany  to  allow  her  to  notice  Oscar  more  than  by  a few  hast} 
words  and  smiles.  There  being  no  dancing  till  the  evening,  iht 
company,  after  breakfast,  dispersed  according  to  their  various 
inclinations. 

The  island  was  diversified  with  little  acclivities,  and  scat, 
tered  over  with  wild  shrubs,  which  embalmed  the  air  ; temporary 
arbors  of  laurel,  intermingled  with  lilies,  were  erected  and  laid 
out  with  fruits,  ices,  and  other  refreshments  ; upon  the  edge  ot 
the  water  a marquee  was  pitched  for  the  regimental  band,  which 
Colonel  Belgrave  had  politely  complimented  the  general  with ; 
a flag  was  hoisted  on  it,  and  upon  a low  eminence  a few  small 
field-pieces  were  mounted : attendants  were  everywhere  dis- 
persed, dressed  in  white  streamers,  ornamented  with  a profusion 
of  orange-colored  ribbons  ; the  boatmen  were  dressed  in  the 
same  livery  ; and  the  barges,  in  which  several  of  the  party  were 
^o  'visit  the  other  islands,  made  a picturesque  appearance  with 
^heir  gay  streamers  fluttering  in  the  breeze  ; the  music,  now 
ioftly  dying  away  upon  the  water,  now  gradually  swelling  on 
the  breeze,  and  echoed  back  by  the  neighboring  hills,  added  to 
the  pleasures  of  the  scene. 

Oscar  followed  the  footsteps  of  Adela ; but  at  the  very 
moment  in  which  he  saw  her  disengaged  from  a large  party, 
the  general  hallooed  to  him  from  a shady  bank  on  which  he 
sat ; Oscar  could  not  refuse  the  summons  ; and,  as  he  ap- 
proached, the  general,  extending  his  hand,  gave  him  a cordial 
squeeze,  and  welcomed  him  as  the  son  of  a brave  man  he  had 
once  intimately  known.  “ I recollected  the  name  of  Fitzalan,” 
said  he,  “ the  moment  I heard  it  mentioned  ; and  had  the  hap- 
piness of  learning  from  Colonel  Belgrave  I was  not  mistaken 
in  believing  you  to  be  the  son  of  my  old  friend.”  He  now 
made  several  inquiries  concerning  Fit^lan,  and  the  affection- 
ate manner  in  which  he  mentioned  him  was  truly  pleasing  to 
Oscar.  “ He  had  once,”  he  said,  “ saved  his  life  at  the  im- 
minent danger  of  his  own,  and  it  was  an  obligation,  while  thai 
life  rentainecj,  he  could  not  forget.” 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


9l 


Like  Don  Guzman  in  Gil  Bias,  the  general  delighted  i\ 
fighting  over  his  battles,  and  now  proceeded  to  enumerate  man5 
incidents  which  happened  during  the  American  war,  when  he 
and  Fitzalan  served  in  the  same  regiment.  Oscar  could  well 
have  dispensed  with  such  an  enumeration  ; but  the  general, 
v/ho  had  no  idea  that  he  was  not  as  much  delighted  in  listen- 
ing as  he  was  in  speaking,  still  went  on.  Adela  had  been 
watching  them  some  time  ; her  patience  at  length,  like  Oscar’s, 
being  exhausted,  she  ran  forward  and  told  her  father  “ he  must 
not  detain  him  another  minute,  for  they  were  going  upon  the 
lake ; and  you  know,  papa,”  cried  she,  “ against  we  come 
back,  you  can  have  all  your  battles  arranged  in  proper  form, 
though,  by  the  bye,  I don’t  think  it  is  the  business  of  an  old 
soldier  to  intimidate  a young  one  with  such  dreadful  tales  oi 
iron  wars.”  The  general  called  her  saucy  baggage,  kissed  hei 
with  rapture,  and  saw  her  trip  off  with  his  young  friend,  who 
seized  the  favorable  opportunity  to  engage  her  for  the  first  sev 
in  the  evening.  About  four  the  company  assembled  in  the  Ab- 
bey  to  dinner ; the  band  pla3^ed  during  the  repast ; the  toastis 
were  proclaimed  by  sound  of  trumpet,  and  answered  by  an  im- 
mediate discharge  from  the  Mount.  At  six  the  ladies  returned 
to  Woodlawn  to  change  their  dresses  for  the  ball,  and  now 

“ Awful  beauty  put  on  all  its  charms.” 

Tea  and  coffee  were  served  in  the  respective  rooms,  and  by 
eleven  the  ballroom  was  completely  crowded  with  company,  at 
once  brilliant  and  lively,  particularly  the  gentlemen,  who  were 
not  a little  elevated  by  the  general’s  potent  libations  to  the 
glorious  memory  of  him  whose  victory  they  were  celebrating. 

Adela,  adorned  in  a style  superior  to  what  Oscar  had  yet 
seen,  appeared  more  lovely  than  he  had  even  at  first  thought 
her  ; her  dress,  which  was  of  thin  muslin,  spangled,  was  so 
contrived^as  to  give  a kind  of  aerial  lightness  to  her  figure. 

% Oscar  reminded  her  of  the  promise  of  the  morning,  at  the  very 
moment  the  colonel  approached  for  the  purpose  of  engaging 
her.  She  instantly  informed  him  of  her  engagement  to  Mr. 
Fitzalan.  Mr.  Fitzalan ! ” repeated  the  colonel,  with  the 
haughty  air  of  a man  who  thought  he  had  reason  to  be  offended; 
‘‘he  has  been  rather  precipitate,  indeed  ; but,  though  we  may 
envy,  who  shall  wonder  at  his  anxiety  to  engage  Miss  Honey- 
wood?  ” 

Dancing  now  commenced,  and  the  elegant  figure  of  Adela 
never  appeared  to  greater  advantage  ; the  transported  general 
watched  every  movement,  and,  “ incomparable,  by  Jove  ! — wha^ 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.^ 


96 

a sweet  angel  she  is ! ” were  expressions  of  admiration  which 
involuntarily  broke  from  him  in  the  pride  and  fondness  of  his 
Jieart.  Oscar,  too,  whose  figure  was  remarkably  fine,  shared 
his  admiration,  and  he  declared  to  Colonel  Belgrave,  he  did 
not  think  the  world  could  produce  such  another  couple.  This 
assertion  was  by  no  means  pleasing  to  the  Colonel ; he  pos- 
sessed as  much  vanity,  perhaps,  as  ever  fell  to  the'  share  of  a 
young  belle  conscious  of  perfections,  and  detested  the  idea  of 
having  any  competitor  (at  least  such  a powerful  one  as  Oscar) 
in  the  good  graces  of  the  ladies.  Adela,  having  concluded  the 
dance,  complained  of  fatigue,  and  retired  to  an  alcove,  whither 
Oscar  followed  her.  The  window  commanded  a view  of  the 
lake,  the  little  island,  and  the  ruined  ^bbey ; the  moon  in  full 
splendor  cast  her  silvery  light  over  all  those  objects,  giving  a 
softness  to  the  landscape,  . even  more  pleasing  than  the  glowing 
charms  it  had  derived  from  the  radiancy  of  day.  Adela  in 
dancing  had  dropped  the  bandeau  from  her  hair  ; Oscar  took 
it  up,  and  still  retained  it.  Adela  now  stretched  forth  her 
hand  to  take  it.  ‘‘  Allow  me,’’  cried  he,  gently  taking  her 
hand,  ‘‘  to  keep  it ; to-morrow  you  would  cast  it  away  as  a 
trifle,  but  I would  treasure  it  as  a relic  of  inestimable  value  \ 
let  me  have  some  memento  of  the  charming  hours  I have 
passed  to-day.”  ‘‘  Oh,  a truce,”  said  Adela,  with  such  eX' 
pressions  (who  did  not,  however,  oppose  his  putting  her  ban- 
deau in  his  bosom) ; they  are  quite  commonplace,  and  have 
already  been  repeated  to  hundreds,  and  will  again,  I make  no 
doubt.”  ‘‘This  is  your  opinion?”  “Yes,"  really.”  “Oh, 
would  to  Heaven,”  exclaimed  Oscar,  “ I durst  convince  you 
how  mistaken  a one  it  is.”  Adela,  laughing,  assured  him  that 
would  be  a difficult  matter.  Oscar  grew  pensive.  “ I think,” 
cried  he,  “if  oppressed  by  misfortune,  I should  of  all  places 
on  earth  like  a seclusion  in  the  old  Abbey.”  “ Why,  really,” 
said  Adela,  “it  is  tolerably  calculated  for  a hermitage  ; and  if 
you  take  a solitary  whim,  I beg  I may  be  apprised  of  it  in  time,  '• 
as'  I should  receive  peculiar  pleasure  in  preparing  your  mossy 
couch  and  frugal  fare.”  “The  reason  for  my  liking  it,”  replied 
he,  “ would  be  the  prospect  I should  have  from  it  of  Woodlawn.” 

“ And  does  Woodlawn,”  asked  Adela,  “contain  such  particu- 
lar charms,  as  to  render  a view  of  it  so  very  delightful  ? ” 

At  this  moment  they  were  summoned  to  call  a new  dance 
— a summons,  perhaps,  not  agreeable  to  either,  as  it  interrupted 
an  interesting  tete-d-tete.  The  colonel  engaged  Adela*  for  the 
next  set ; and  though  Oscar  had  no  longer  an  inclination  to 
dance,  to  avoid  particularity  he  stood  up,  and  with  a young 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


97 


lady  who  was  esteemed  extremely  handsome.  Adela,  as  if 
fatigued,  no  longer  moved  with  animation,  and  suddenly  inter- 
rupted the  colonel  in  a gallant  speech  he  was  making  to  her, 
to  inquire,  if  he  thought  Miss  O'Neal  (Oscar’s  partner)  pretty 
— so  very  pretty  as  she  was  generally  thought 't  ” The  colonel 
was  too  keen  not  to  discover  at  once  the  motive  which  sug- 
gested this  inquiry.  “ Why,  faith,”  cried  he  after  examining 
Miss  O'Neal  some  minutes  through  an  opera  glass,  ‘‘ the  girl 
has  charms,  but  so  totally  eclipsed,  “ looking  languishingly  at 
Adela,  in  my  eyes,  that  I cannot  do  them  the  justice  they 
may  perhaps  merit : Fitzalan,  however,  by  the  homage  he  pays 
her,  seems  as  if  he  would  make  up  for  the  deficiency  of  every 
other  person.”  Adela  turned  pale,  and  took  the  first  oppor- 
tunity of  demanding  her  bandeau  from  Oscar ; he,  smilingly, 
refused  it,  declaring  it  was  a trophy  of  the  happiness  he  had 
enjoyed  that  day,  and  that  the  general  should  have  informed 
her  a soldier  never  relinquished  such  a glorious  memento.” 
‘•Resign  mine,”  replied  Adela,  “and  procure  one  from  Miss 
O’Neal.” — “ No  ! ” cried  he,  “ I would  not  pay  her  charms 
and  my  own  sincerity  so  bad  a compliment,  as  to  ask  what  I 
should  not  in  the  least  degree  value.”  Adela’s  spirits  revived, 
and  she  repeated  her  request  no  more. 

The  dancing  continued  after  supper,  with  little  intermission, 
till  seven,  when  the  company  repaired  to  the  saloon  to  break- 
fast, after  which  they  dispersed.  The  general  particularly  and 
affectionately  bid  Oscar  farewell,  and  charged  him  to  consider 
Woodlawn  as  his  head-quarters.  “ Be  assured,”  said  the  good- 
natured  old  man,  “ the  son  of  my  brave,  worthy,  and  long-re- 
spected friend,  will  ever  be  valuable  to  my  heart  and  welcome 
to  my  home  ; and  would  to  heaven,  in  the  calm  evening  of  life, 
your  father  and  I had  pitched  our  tents  nearer  each  other.” 

From  this  period  Oscar  became  almost  an  inmate  of  his 
house,  and  the  general  shortly  grew  so  attached  to  him,  that 
he  felt  unhappy  if  deprived  of  his  society  ; the  attentions  he 
received  from  Oscar  were  such  as  an  affectionate  son  would 
pay  a tender  father ; he  supported  his  venerable  friend  when- 
ever he  attempted  to  walk,  attended  him  in  all  the  excursions 
he  made  about  his  domain,  read  to  him  when  he  wanted  to  be 
lulled  to  sleep,  and  listened,  without  betraying  any  symp- 
toms of  fatigue,  to  his  long  and  often  truly  tiresome  stories  of 
former  battles  and  campaigns  ; in  paying  these  attentions  Oscar 
ooeyed  the  dictates  of  gratitude  and  esteem,  and  also  gratified 
a benevolent  disposition,  happy  in  being  able 
“To  rock  the  cradle  of  declining  age.” 


98 


THE  CHILD REH  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


But  hi'j  time  was  not  so  entirely  engrossed  by  the  genera! 
ds  to  prevent  his  having  many  hours  to  devote  to  Adela ; witn 
her  he  alternately  conversed,  read,  and  sung,  rambled  with  her 
through  romantic  paths,  or  rode  along  the  beautiful  borders  or 
Lough  Erne  ; was  almost  her  constant  escort  to  all  the  parties 
she  went  to  in  the  neighborhood,  and  frequently  accompaiaied 
her  to  the  hovels  of  wretchedness,  where  the  woes  which  ex" 
toned  the  soft  tear  of  commiseration  he  saw  amply  relieved  by 
her  generous  hand ; admiring  her  as  he  did  before,  how  im- 
possible was  it  for  Oscar,  in  these  dangerous  tete-a-tetes^  to 
resist  the  progr:!ss  of  a tender  passion — a passion,  however, 
confined  (as  far  at  least  as  silence  could  confine  it)  to  his  own 
heart.  I'he  confidence  which  he  thought  the  general  reposed 
in  him,  by  allowing  such  an  intercourse  with  his  daughter,  was 
too  sacred  in  his  estimation  to  be  abused  ; but  though  his  honor 
resisted,  his  health  yielded  to  his  feelings. 

Adela,  from  delighting  in  company,  suddenly  took  a pensive 
turn ; she  declined  the  constant  society  she  had  hitherto  kept 
up,  and  seemed  in  a solitary  ramble  with  Oscar  to  enjoy  more 
pleasure  than  the  gayest  party  appeared  to  afford  her ; the 
favorite  spot  they  visited  almost  every  evening  was  a path  on 
the  margin  of  the  lake,  at  the  foot  of  a woody  mountain  ; here 
often  seated,  they  viewed  the  sun  sinking  behind  the  opposite 
hills  ; and  while  they  enjoyed  the  benignancy  of  his  departing 
beams,  beheld  him  tinge  the  trembling  waves  with  gold  and 
purple  ; the  low  whistle  of  the  ploughman  returning  to  his  hum- 
ble cottage,  the  plaintive  carol  of  birds  from  the  adjacent 
grove,  and  the  low  bleating  of  cattle  from  pastures  which 
swelled  above  the  water,  all  these,  by  giving  the  softest  and 
most  pleasing  charms  of  nature  to  the  hour,  contrived  to  touch, 
yet  more  sensibly,  hearts  already  prepossessed  in  favor  of  each 
other.  Adela  would  sometimes  sing  a little  simple  air,  and 
carelessly  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Oscar,  appear  to  enjoy  perfect 
felicity.  Not  so  poor  Oscar  : the  feelings  of  his  soul  at  these 
moments  trembled  on  his  lips,  and  to  repress  them  was  agony. 

An  incident  soon  occurred  which  endeared  him  yet  more  to 
the  general.  Driving  one  day  in  a low  phaeton  along  a road 
cut  over  a mountain,  the  horses,  frightened  by  a sudden  firing 
from  the  lake,  began  rearing  in  the  most  frightful  manner;  the 
carriage  stood  near  a tremendous  precipice,  and  the  servants, 
appalled  by  terror,  had  not  power  to  move.  Oscar  saw  that 
nothing  but  an  effort  of  desperate  resolution  could  keep  them 
from  destruction  ; he  leaped  out,  and,  rushing  before  the  horses, 
seized  their  heads,  at  the  eminent  hazard  of  being  tumbled 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


99 


down  the  precipice,  on  whose  very  verge  he  stood  ; the  ser- 
vants, a little  relieved  from  their  terror,  hastened  to  his  assist- 
ance ; the  traces  were  cut,  and  the  poor  general,  whose  infirm- 
ities had  weakened  his  spirits,  conveyed  home  in  almost  a state 
nf  insensibility.  Adela,  perceiving  him  from  her  dressing-room 
window,  flew  down,  and  learning  his  danger,  fell  upon  his  neck 
in  an  agony  of  mingled  joy  and  terror ; her  caresses  soon  re- 
vived him,  and  as  he  returned  them,  his  eyes  eagerly  sought  his 
deliverer.  Oscar  stood  near,  with  mingled  tenderness  and 
anxiety  in  his  looks  ; the  general  took  his  hand,  and  whilst  he 
pressed  it  along  with  Adela’s  to  his  bosom,  tears  fell  on  them. 
''  You  are  both  my  children  ! ’’  he  exclaimed  ; “the  children  of 
my  love,  and  from  3^our  felicity  I must  derive  mine.”  This 
expression  Oscar  conceived  to  be  a mere  effusion  of  gratitude, 
httle  thinking  what  a project  relative,  to  him  had  entered  the 
general’s  head,  who  had  first,  however,  consulted  and  learned 
from  his  daughter  it  would  be  agreeable  to  her.  This  gener- 
ous, some  will  say  romantic,  old  man,  felt  for  Oscar  the  most 
unbounded  love  and  gratitude,  and  as  the  best  proof  of  both, 
he  resolved  to  bestow  on  this  young  soldier  his  rich  and  lovely 
heiress,  who  had  acknowledged  to  her  father  her  predilection 
for  him.  He  knew  his  birth  to  be  noble,  his  disposition  ami- 
able, and  his  spirit  brave  ; besides,  by  this  union  he  should 
secure  the  society  of  Adela.  He  wished  her  married,  yet 
dreaded,  whenever  that  event  took  place,  he  should  be  deprived 
of  her ; but  Oscar,  he  supposed,  bound  to  him  by  gratitude, 
would,  unlike  others,  accede  to  his  wishes  of  residing  at  Wood- 
lawn  during  his  lifetime.  His  projectile  resolved  on  communi- 
cating to  Colonel  Belgrave,  whom,  on  Oscar’s  account,  he  re- 
garded, as  Oscar  had  said  (what  indeed  he  believed),  that  he 
was  partly  indebted  to  him  for  his  commission. 

What  a thunder-stroke  was  this  to  Belgrave,  who  arrived  at 
Woodlawn  the  morning  after  the  resolution  was  finally  settled, 
and  was  asked  to  accompany  the  general,  about  a little  busi- 
ness, to  the  summer-house  in  the  garden.  Poor  Oscar  trem- 
bled ; he  felt  a presentiment  he  should  be  the  subject  of  dis- 
course, and  had  no  doubt  but  the  general  meant  to  complain 
to  Colonel  Belgrave,  as  a person  who  had  some  authority  ovel 
him,  about  his  great  particularity  to  Miss  Honeywood. 

Rage,  envy,  and  surprise,  kept  the  colonel  silent  some  min- 
utes after  the  general  had  ended  speaking  ; dissimulation  then 
came  to  his  aid,  and  he  attempted,  though  in  faltering  accents, 
to  express  his  admiration  of  such  generosity;  yet  to  bestow 
such  a treasure,  so  inestimable,  on  such  a man,  when  so  many 


loo 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.' 


of  equal  rank  and  fortune  sighed  for  its  possession  ; upon  a 
man,  too,  or  rather  a boy,  from  whose  age  it  might  be  expected 
his  affections  would  be  variable.  Let  me  tell  you,  colonel,’^ 
said  the  general,  hastily  interrupting  him,  and  striking  his  stick 
upon  the  ground,  as  he  rose  to  return  to  the  house,  there  can 
be  little  danger  of  his  affections  changing  when  such  a girl  as 
Adela  is  his  wife  ; so  touch  no  more  upon  that  subject,  I en- 
treat you  ; but  you  must  break  the  affair  to  the  young  fellow, 
for  I should  be  in  such  a confounded  flurry  I should  set  all  in 
confusion,  and  beat  an  alarm  at  the  first  onset.’^ 

The  gloom  and  embarrassment  which  appeared  in  the  coun- 
tenance of  the  calonel,  filled  Oscar  with  alarms  ; he  imagined 
them  excited  by  friendship  for  him.  After  what  the  general 
had  said,  he  sighed  to  hear  particulars,  and  longed,  for  the  first 
time,  to  quit  Woodlawn,  The  colonel  was  indeed  in  a state 
of  torture  ; he  had  long  meditated  the  conquest  of  Adela, 
whose  fortune  and  beauty  rendered  her  a truly  desirable  object ; 
to  resign  her  without  one  effort  of  circumventing  Oscar  was  not 
to  be  thought  of.  To  blast  his  promised  joys,  even  if  it  did 
not  lead  to  the  accomplishment  of  his  own  wishes,  he  felt  would 
give  him  some  comfort,  and  he  resolved  to  leave  no  means 
untried  for  doing  so. 

They  set  off  early  in  the  morning  for  Enniskillen,  and  Bel- 
grave  sent  his  servant  on  before  them,  that  there  might  be  no 
restraint  on  the  conversation  he  found  Oscar  inclined  to  begin.. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


**  Sincerity! 

Thou  first  of  virtues,  let  no  mortal  leave 

Thy  onward  path,  although  the  earth  should  gape. 

And  from  the  gulf  of  hell  destruction  cry 

To  take  dissimulation’s  winding  way.”^DoUGI.AS. 

^*Well,  colonel,”  said  Oscar,  I fancy  I was  not  mistaken 
in  thinking  the  general  wanted  to  speak  with  you  concerning 
me  ; I am  convinced  you  will  not  conceal  any  particulars  of  a 
conversation  it  may  be  so  essential  to  my  honor  to  hear.” 
“ Why,  faith,”  cried  the  colonel,  delighted  to  commence  his 
Operations,  he  was  making  a kind  of  complaint  about  you  ; he 
acknowledges  you  a brave  lad,  yet,  hang  him,  he  has  not  gener- 
osity enough  to  reward  that  bravery  with  his  daughter,  or  any 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


loi 


of  his  treasure.’^  Heaven  is  my  witness  1 ’’  exclaimed  the 
unsuspicious  Oscar,  I never  aspired  to  either  ; I always  knew 
rny  passion  for  his  daughter  as  hopeless  as  fervent,  and  my  es- 
teem for  him  as  disinterested  as  sincere ; I would  have  sooner 
died  than  abused  the  confidence  he  reposed  in  me,  by  reveal- 
ing my  attachment ; I see,  however,  in  future,  I must  be  an 
exile  to  Woodlawn.’^  ‘‘  Not  so,  neither,’’  replied  the  colonel  ; 

only  avoid  such  particularity  to  the  girl ; I believe  in  my  soul 
she  has  more  pride  than  susceptibility  in  her  nature  ; in  your 
next  visit,  therefore,  which,  for  that  purpose,  I would  have  you 
soon  make,  declare,  in  a cavalier  manner,  your  affections  being 
engaged  previous  to  your  coming  to  Ireland ; this  declaration 
will  set  all  to  rights  with  the  general ; he  will  no  longer  dread 
you  on  his  daughter’s  account ; you  will  be  as  welcome  as  ever 
to  Woodlawn,  and  enjoy,  during  your  continuance  in  the  coum 
try,  the  society  you  have  hitherto  been  accustomed  to.”  No,” 
said  Oscar,  “ I cannot  assert  so  great  a falsehood.”  “ How 
ridiculous  ! ” replied  the  colonel ; “ for  heaven’s  sake,  my  dear 
boy,  drop  such  romantic  notions  ; I should  be  the  last  man  in 
the  world  to  desire  you  to  invent  a falsehood  which  could  in- 
jure any  one  ; but  no  priest  in  Christendom  would  blame  you 
for  this.”  “ And  suppose  I venture  it,  what  will  it  do  but  bind 
faster  round  my  heart  chains  already  too  galling,  and  destroy 
in  the  end  all  remains  of  peace.” 

Faith,  Fitzalan,”  said  the  colonel,  ‘‘by  the  time  you  have 
had  a few  more  love  affairs  with  some  of  the  pretty  girls  of  this 
kingdom,  you  will  talk  no  more  in  this  way  ; consider,  and  be 
not  too  scrupulous,  how  disagreeable  it  will  be  to  resign  the 
general’s  friendship,  and  the  pleasing  society  you  enjoyed  at 
Woodlawn  ; besides,  it  will  appear  strange  to  those  who  knew 
your  former  intimacy  : in  honor,  too,  you  are  bound  to  do  as  I 
desire  you,  for  should  the  girl  have  been  imprudent  enough  to 
conceive  an  attachment  for  you,  this  will  certainly  remove  it ; 
for  pride  would  not  allow  its  continuance  after  hearing  of  a 
favorite  rival  ; and  the  general  will  be  essentially  served.” 
“ My  dear  colonel,”  said  Oscar,  his  eyes  suddenly  sparkling, 
“do  you  think  she  has  been  imprudent  enough  to  conceive  a 
partiality  for  me  1 ” “ I am  sure,”  Said  the  colonel,  “ that  is  a 

question  I cannot  possibly  answer , but,  to  give  my  opinion,  I 
think,  from  her  gay,  unembarrassed  manner,  she  has  not.” 
“ I suppose  not,  indeed,”  cried  Oscar,  mournfully  sighing ; 
“ why  then  should  I be  guilty  of  a falsehood  for  a person  who 
is  already  indifferent  to  me  ? ” “I  have  told  you  my  reason,” 
replied  the  colonel,  coldly ; “ do  as  you  please.”  They  were 


102 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


now  both  silent,  but  the  conversation  was  soon  renewed,  and 
many  arguments  passed  on  both  sides.  Oscar’s  heart  secretly 
favored  the  colonel’s  plan,  as  it  promised  the  indulgence  of 
Adela’s  society  ; to  be  an  exile  from  Woodlawn  was  insupport- 
able to  his  thoughts  ; reason  yielded  to  the  vehemence  of  pas- 
sion, and  he  at  last  fell  into  the  snare  the  perfidious  Belgrave 
had  spread,  thus,  by  a deviation  from  truth,  forfeiting  the  bless- 
ings a bounteous  Providence  had  prepared  for  him. 

Oh ! never  let  the  child  of  integrity  be  seduced  from  the  • 
plain  and  undeviating  path  of  sincerity  : oh  ! never  let  him  hope 
by  illicit  means  to  attain  a real  pleasure  ; the  hope  of  obtaining 
any  good  through  such  means  will,  like  a meteor  of  the  nighty 
allure  but  to  deceive. 

Soon  after  his  fatal  promise  to  the  colonel,  a self-devoted 
victim,  he  accompanied  him  to  Woodlawn  ; on  their  arrival. 
Miss  Honeywood  was  in  the  garden,  and  Oscar,  trembling,  went 
to  seek  her  ; he  found  her  sitting  in  a flower-woven  arbor — 

“ Herself  the  fairest  flower.” 

Never  had  she  looked  more  lovely ; the  natural  bloom  of 
her  cheeks  was  heightened  by  the  heat,  and  glowed  beneath 
the  careless  curls  that  fell  over  them  ; and  her  eyes,  the  mo- 
ment she  beheld  Oscar,  beamed  with  the  softest  tenderness,  the 
most  bewitching  sensibility.  “ My  dear,  dear  Fitzalan  ! ” cried 
she,  throwing  aside  the  book  she  had  been  reading,  and  extend- 
ing her  hand,  “ I am  glad  to  see  you  ; I hope  you  are  come  to 
take  up  your  residence  for  some  time  at  Woodlawn.”  “You 
hope  ! ” repeated  Oscar,  mournfully.  “ I do,  indeed  ! but, 
bless  me,  what  is  the  matter  ? You  look  so  pale  and  thin,  you 
look  but  the  shadow  of  yourself,  or  rather  like  a despairing 
shepherd,  ready  to  hang  himself  on  the  ^irst  willow  tree  he 
meets.”  “I  am  indeed  unhappy!  ” cried  Oscar;  “nor  will 
you  wonder  at  my  being  so  w^hen  I acknowledge  I at  this  pres- 
ent time  feel  a passion  which  I must  believe  hopeless.”  “ Hope- 
less 1 well,  now,  I insist  on  being  your  confidant,  and  then,” 
smiling  somewhat  archly,  “ I shall  see  what  reason  you  have  to 
despair.”  “ Agreed,”  exclaimed  Oscar ; “ and  now  to  my 
story : ” then  pausing  a minute,  he  started  up.  “ No,”  con- 
tinued he,  “ I find  it  impossible  to  tell  it ; let  this  dear 

this  estimable  object,”  drawing  a miniature  of  his  sister  fron? 
his  bosom,  “ speak  for  me,  and  declare  whether  he  who  loves 
such  a being  can  ever  lose  that  love,  or  help  being  wretched  at 
knowing  it  is  without  hope.” 

Adela  snatched  it  hastily  from  him,  and  by  a sudden  start 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


103 


betrayed  her  surprise ; words  indeed  are  Inadequate  to  express 
her  heart-rending  emotions  as  she  contemplated, the  beaut’aul 
countenance  of  her  imaginary  rival : and  was  Oscar,  then — that 
Oscar  whom  she  adored — whose  happiness  she  had  hoped  to 
constitute — whose  fortune  she  delighted  to  think  she  should  ad- 
vance— really  attached  to  another ; alas  ! too  true,  he  was — of 
the  attachment  she  held  a convincing  proof  in  her  hand ; she 
examined  it  again  and  again,  and  in  its  mild  beauties  thought 
she  beheld  a striking  proof  of  the  superiority  over  the  charms 
she  herself  possessed  ; the  roses  forsook  her  cheeks,  a mist 
overspread  her  eyes,  and  with  a shivering  horror  she  dropped 
it  from  her  hand.  Oscar  had  quitted  the  arbor  to  conceal  his 
agonies.  “ Well,”  said  he,  now  returning  with  forced  calmness, 
“ is  it  not  worthy  of  inspiring  the  passion  I feel  ? ” Unable  to 
answer  him,  she  could  only  point  to  the  place  where  it  lay,  and 
hastened  to  the  house.  ‘‘  Sweet  image  ! ” cried  Oscar,  taking 
it  from  the  ground,  what  an  unworthy  purpose  have  I made  yo.u 
answer  ! — alas  ! all  is  now  over — Adela — my  Adela  ! — is  lost 
forever  ! — lost — ah,  heavens  ! had  I ever  hopes  of  possessing 
her? — oh,  no!  to  such  happiness  never  did  I dare  to  look 
forward.” 

Adela,  on  reaching  the  parlor  which  opened  into  the  garden, 
found  her  father  there.  “ Ah  1 you  little  baggage,  do  I not  de- 
serve a kiss  for  not  disturbing  your  tete-a-tete  1 Where  is  that 
young  rogue,  Fitzalan  ? ” ‘‘  I beg,  I entreat,  sir,”  said  Adela, 

whose  tears  could  no  longer  be  restrained,  ‘‘  you  will  never 
mention  him  again  to  me ; too  much  has  already  been  said 
about  him.*’  “Nay,  pr’ythee,  my  little  girl,”  exclaimed  the 
general,  regarding  her  with  surprise,  “ cease  thy  sighs  and  tears, 
and  tell  me  what’s  the  matter.”  “ I am  hurt,”  replied  she,  in  a 
voice  scarcely  articulate,  “ that  so  much  has  been  said  about 
Mr.  Fitzalan,  whom  I can  never  regard  in  any  other  light  than 
that  of  a common  acquaintance.”  The  colonel,  who  had  pur- 
posely lingered  about  the  wood,  now  entered.  Adela  started, 
and  precipitately  retreated  through  another  door.  “ Faith,  my 
dear  colonel,”  said  the  general,  “ I am  glad  you  are  come  ; the 
boy  and  girl  have  had  a little  skirmish  ; but,  like  other  love 
quarrels,  I suppose  it  will  soon  be  made  up — so  let  me  know 
how  the  lad  bore  the  announcement  of  his  good  fortune.”  “ tt 
fills  a rational  mind  with  regret,”  exclaimed  the  colonel,  seat- 
ing himself  gravely,  and  inwardly  rejoicing  at  the  success  of  his 
stratagem,  “ to  find  such  a fatality  prevalent  among  mankind  as 
makes  them  reject  a proffered  good,  and  sigh  for  that  which  is 
unattainable  ; like  wayward  children,  neglecting  their  sports  to 


104 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABJEY, 


pursue  a rainbow,  and  weeping  as  the  airy  pageant  mocks  their 
grasp/^  “ Very  true,  indeed,’^  said  the  general ; “ very  excel- 
lent, upon  my  word ; I doubt  if  the  chaplain  of  a regiment  ever 
delivered  such  a pretty  piece  of  morality ; but,  dear  colonel,’^ 
laying  his  hand  on  his  knee,  “ what  did  the  boy  say  ? “I  am 
sorry,  sir,’’  he  replied,  “ that  what  I have  just  said  is  so  appli- 
cable to  him.  He  acknowledged  the  lady’s  merit,  extolled  her 
generosity — but  pleaded  a prior  attachment  against  accepting 
your  offer,  which  even  one  more  exalted  would  not  tempt  him 
to  forego,  though  he  knows  not  whether  he  will  ever  succeed  in 
it.”  The  devil  he  did  ! ” exclaimed  the  general,  as  soon  as 
rage  and  surprise  would  allow  him  to  speak.  ‘‘  The  little  im- 
pertinent puppy  ! the  ungrateful  young  dog  ! a prior  attachment  1 
^reject  my  girl — my  Adela — who  has  had  such  suitors  already  ; 
so,  I suppose  I shall  have  the  whole  affair  blazed  about  the 
country ; I shall  hear  from  every  quarter  how  my  daughter  was 
refused  ; and  by  whom  ? — why,  by  a little  ensign,  whose  whole 
fortune  lies  in  his  sword-knot.  A fine  game  I have  played, 
truly ; but  if  the  jackanapes  opens  his  lips  about  the  matter, 
may  powder  be  my  poison  if  I do  not  trim  his  jacket  for  him  ! ” 
“ Dear  general,”  said  the  colonel,  you  may  depend  on  his 
honor ; but  even  supposing  he  did  mention  the  affair,  surely 
you  should  know  it  would  not  be  in  his  power  to  injure  Miss 
Honeywood — amiable — accomplished — in  short,  possessed,  as 
she  is,  of  every  perfection.  I know  men,  at  least  one  man  of 
consequence,  both  from  birth  and  fortune,  who  has  long  sighed 
for  her,  and  who  would,  if  he  received  the  least  encouragement, 
openly  avow  his  sentiments.”  Well,”  cried  the  general,  still 
panting  for  breath,  ‘‘  we  will  talk  about  him  at  some  future 
time ; for  I am  resolved  on  soon  having  my  little  girl  married, 
and  to  her  own  liking,  too.” 

Oscar  and  Adela  did  not  appear  till  dinner  time  : both  had 
been  endeavoring  to  regain  composure  ] but  poor  Oscar  had 
been  far  less  successful  than  Adela  in  the  attempt ; not  that  she 
loved  less,  for  indeed  her  passion  for  him  was  of  the  tenderest 
nature,  and  she  flattered  herself  with  having  inspired  one  equally 
ardent  in  his  breast.  Sanctioned  by  her  father,  she  thought  it 
would  constitute  the  felicity  of  their  lives,  and  looked  forward 
with  a generous  delight  to  the  period  when  she  should  render 
her  beloved  Fitzalan  prosperous  and  independent.  The  disap- 
pointment she  experienced,  as  the  first  she  had  ever  met,  sat 
heavy  on  her  heart,  and  the  gay  visions  of  youth  were  in  one 
moment  clouded  by  melancholy  ; but  her  pride  was  as  great  as 
her  sensibility,  and  as  its  powerful  impulse  pervaded  her  mindc 


7^HE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


105 

she  resolved  to  afford  Oscar  no  triumph  by  letting  him  witness 
her  dejection  ; she  therefore  wiped  away  all  traces  of  tears  from 
her  eyes,  checked  the  vain  sigh  that  struggled  at  her  heart,  and 
dressed  herself  with  as  much  attention  as  ever.  Her  heavy 
eyes,  her  colorless  cheeks,  however,  denoted  her  feelings  ; she 
tried,  as  she  sat  at  table,  to  appear  cheerful,  but  in  vain  ; and, 
on  the  removal  of  the  cloth,  immediately  retired,  as  no  ladies 
were  present. 

The  general  was  a stranger  to  dissimulation,  and  as  he  no 
longer  felt,  he  no  longer  treated  Oscar  with  his  usual  kindness. 
When  pale,  trembling,  and  disordered,  he  appeared  before  him, 
he  received  him  with  a stern  frown,  and  an  air  scarcely  com- 
plaisant. This  increased  the  agitation  of  Oscar : every  feeling 
of  his  soul  was  in  commotion  ; he  was  no  longer  the  life  of  their 
company ; their  happiness  and  mirth  formed  a striking  contrast 
to  his  misery  and  dejection ; he  felt  a forlorn  wretch — a mere 
child  of  sorrow  and  dependence  ; scalding  tears  dropped  from 
him  as  he  bent  over  his  plate ; he  could  have  cursed  himself 
for  such  weakness  : fortunately  it  was  unnoticed.  In  losing  the 
general’s  attention,  he  seemed  to  lose  that  of  his  guests  ; his 
situation  grew  too  irksome  to  be  borne  ; he  rose,  unregarded, 
and  a secret  impulse  led  him  to  the  drawing-room.  Here 
Adela,  oppressed  by  the  dejection  of  her  spirits,  had  flung  her- 
self upon  a couch,  and  gradually  sunk  into  a slumber  : Oscar 
stepped  lightly  forward,  and  gazed  on  her  with  a tenderness  a? 
exquisite  as  a mother  would  have  felt  in  viewing  her  sleeping 
babe  ; her  cheek,  which  rested  on  her  fair  hand,  was  tinged 
with  a blush,  by  the  reflection  of  a crimson  curtain  through 
which  the  sun  darted,  and  the  traces  of  a tear  v/ere  yet  dis- 
cernible upon-it.  “ Never  !”  cried  Oscar,  with  folded  hands, 
as  he  hung  over  the  interesting  figure,  never  may  any  tear, 
except  that  of  soft  sensibility  for  the  woes  of  others,  bedew  the 
cheek  of  Adela — perfect  as  her  goodness  be  her  felicity — may 
every  blessing  she  now  enjoys  be  rendered  permanent  by  that 
Power  who  smiles  benignly  upon  innocence  like  hers  ! Oh  \ 
Adela,  he  who  now  prays  for  your  felicity  never  will  lose  your 
idea,  lie  will  cherish  it  in  his  heart,  to  ameliorate  his  sorrows, 
and,  from  the  dreary  path  which  may  be  appointed  for  him  to 
tread,  sometimes  look  back  to  happier  scenes !’’  Adela  began 
to  stir ; she  murmured  out  some  inarticulate  words,  and,  sud- 
denly rising  from  the  couch,  beheld  the  motionless  form  of 
Fitzalan : haughtily  regarding  him,  she  asked  the  meaning  of 
Buch  an  intrusion.  ‘‘  I did  not  mean  indeed  to  intrude,’’  said 
he  ; “ but  when  I came  and  found  you,  can  you  wonder  at 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY,  ' 

besag  fascinated  to  the  spot  ? ’’  The  plaintive  tone  of  his  voice 
sunk  deep  into  Adela’s  heart ; she  sighed  heavily,  and  turning 
away  seated  herself  in  a window.  Oscar  followed  ; he  forgot 
the  character  he  had  assumed  in  the  morning,  and  gently  seiz- 
ing her  hand,  pressed  it  to  his  bosom  : at  this  critical  minute, 
when  mutual  sympathy  appeared  on  the  point  of  triumphing 
over  duplicity,  the  door  opened,  and  Colonel  Belgrave  ap- 
peared ; from  the  instant  of  Oscar’s  departure,  he  had  been  on 
thorns  to  follow  him,  fearful  of  the  consequences  of  a tete-a-tete^ 
whicn  was  attended  by  the  rest  of  the  gentlemen. 

Oscar  was  determined  on  not  staying  another  night  at 
Wooalawn,  and  declared  his  intention  by  asking  Colonel  Bel- 
grave  if  he  had  any  commands  for  Enniskillen,  whither  he 
meant  to  return  immediately.  “ Why,  hang  it,  boy,”  cried  the 
general,  in  a rough  grumbling  voice,  “ since  you  have  stayed 
so  long,  you  may  as  well  stay  the  night ; the  clouds  look  heavy 
over  the  lake,  and  threaten  a storm.”  “No,  sir,”  “said  Oscar, 
coloring,  and  speaking  in  the  agitation  of  his  heart,  “ the 
raging  of  a tempest  would  not  make  me  stay.”  Adela  sighed, 
but  pride  prevented  her  speaking.  Fitzalan  approached  her : 
“ Miss  Honeywood,”  said  he — he  stopped — his  voice  was  quite 
stifled.  Adela,  equally  unable  to  speak,  could  only  encourage 
him  to  proceed  by  a cold  glance.  “ Lest  I should  not,”  re- 
sumed he,  “ have  the  happiness  of  again  visiting  Woodlawn,  I 
cannot  neglect  this  opportunity  of  assuring  you  that  the  atten- 
tion, the  obligations  I have  received  in  it,  never  can  be  forgot- 
ten by  me  ; and  that  the  severest  pang  my  heart  could  possibly 
experience  would  result  from  thinking  I lost  any  part  of  the 
friendship  you  and  the  general  honored  me  with.”  Adela  bent 
her  head,  and  Oscar,  seeing  that  she  either  would  not,  or  could 
not  speak,  bowed  to  the  general,  and  hurried  from  the  room  • 
the  tears  he  had  painfully  suppressed  gushed  forth,  and  at  the 
bottom  of  the  stairs  he  leaned  against  the  banisters  for  sup- 
port ; while  he  cast  his  eyes  around,  as  if  bidding  a melancholy 
farewell  to  the  scene  of  former  happiness,  a hasty  footstep  ad- 
vanced, he  started,  and  was  precipitately  retreating,  when  the 
voice  of  the  butler  stopped  him  ; this  was  an  old  veteran,  much 
attached  to  Oscar,  and  his  usual  attendant  in  all  his  fowling 
and  fishing  parties.  As  he  waited  at  tea,  he  heard  Oscar’s 
declaration  of  departing  with  surprise,  and  followed  him  for  the 
purpose  of  expressing  that  and  his  concern.  “ Why,  Lord  now, 
Mr.  Fitzalan,”  cried  he,  “ what  do  you  mean  by  leaving  us  so 
oddly  ? But  if  you  are  so  positive  about  going  to  Enniskillen 
to-night,  let  me  order  Standard  to  be  prepared  for  you.”  Oscar 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


107 

for  some  time  had  had  the  command  of  the  stables ; but  know- 
ing as  he  did  that  he  had  lost  the  general’s  favor,  he  could  no 
longer  think  of  taking  those  liberties  which  kindness  had  once 
invited  him  to  : he  wrung  the  hand  of  his  humble  friend,  and 
snatching  his  hat  from  the  hall  table,  darted  out  of  the  house  : 
he  ran  till  he  came  to  the  mountain  path,  on  the  margin  of  the 
lake.  “ Never,”  cried  he,  distractedly  striking  his  breast, 
shall  I see  her  here  again  ! oh,  never,  never,  my  beloved 
Adela  ! shall  your  unfortunate  Fitzalan  wander  with  you  through 
those  enchanting  scenes : oh,  how  transient  was  this  gleam  of 
felicity ! ” 

Exhausted  by  the  violence  of  his  feelings,  he  fell  into  a kind 
of  torpid  state  against  the  side  of  the  mountain  ; the  shadows 
of  night  were  thickened  by  a coming  storm  ; a cool  blast  howled 
amongst  the  hills,  and  agitated  the  gloomy  waters  of  the  lake  ; 
the  rain,  accompanied  by  sleet,  began  to  fall,  but  the  tempest 
raged  unregarded  around  the  child  of  sorrow,  the  wanderer  of 
the  night.  Adela  alone, 

“ Heard,  elt,  or  seen,” 

pervaded  every  thought.  Some  fishermen  approaching  to  se- 
cure their  boats,  drove  him  from  this  situation,  and  he  flew  to 
the  woods  which  screened  one  side  of  the  house  : by  the  time 
he  reached  it  the  storm  had  abated,  and  the  moon,  with  a 
watery  lustre,  breaking  through  the  clouds,  rendered,  by  her 
feeble  rays,  the  surrounding  and  beloved  scenes  just  visible. 

Adela’s  chamber  looked  into  the  wood,  and  the  light  from 
it  riveted  Oscar  to  a spot  exactly  opposite  the  window.  ‘‘  My 
Adela,”  he  exclaimed,  extending  his  arms  as  if  she  could  have 
heard  and  flown  into  them  ; then  dejectedly  dropping  them, 
“ she  thinks  not  on  such  a forlorn  wretch  as  me  ; oh,  what 
comfort  to  lay  my  poor  distracted  head  for  one  moment  on  her 
soft  bosom,  and  hear  her  sweet  voite  speak  pity  to  my  tortured 
heart  ! ” Sinking  with  weakness  from  the  conflicts  of  his 
mind,  he  sought  an  old  roofless  root-house  in  the  centre  of  the 
wood,  where  he  and  Adela  had  .often  sat.  “Well,”  said  he. 
as  he  flung  himself  upon  the  damp  ground,  “ many  a brave 
fellow  has  had  a worse  bed  ; but  God  particularly  protects  the 
unsheltered  head  of  the  soldier  and  the  afflicted.”  The  twitter- 
ing of  the  birds  roused  him  from  an  uneasy  slumber,  or  rather 
lethargy,  into  which  he  had  fallen  ; and  starting  up  he  hastened 
to  the  road,  fearful,  as  day  was  beginning  to  dawn,  of  being 
seen  by  any  of  General  Honey  wood’s  workmen.  It  was  late 
ere  he  arrived  at  Enniskillen,  and  before  he  gained  his  room 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


jfOS 

he  was  met  by  some  of  the  officers,  who  viewed  him  with  evh 
dent  astonishment ; his  regimentals  were  quite  spoiled  ; his 
fine  hair,  from  which  the  rain  had  washed  all  the  powder,  hung 
dishevelled  about  his  shoulders ; the  feather  of  his  hat  was 
broken,  and  the  disorder  of  his  countenance  was  not  less  suspi- 
cious than  that  of  his  dress  ; to  their  inquiries  he  stammered 
out  something  of  a fall,  and  extricated  himself  with  difficulty 
from  them. 

In  an  obscure  village,  fifteen  miles  from  Enniskillen,  a de- 
tachment of  the  regiment  lay  ; the  officer  who  commanded  it 
disliked  his  situation  extremely ; but  company  being  irksome 
to  Oscar,  it  was  just  such  a one  as  he  desired,  and  he  obtained 
leave  to  relieve  him : the  agitation  of  his  mind,  aided  by  the 
effects  of  the  storm  he  had  been  exposed  to,  was  too  much  for 
his  constitution  : immediately  on  arriving  at  his  new  quarters 
he  was  seized  with  a violent  fever ; an  officer  was  obliged  to  be 
sent  to  do  duty  in  his  place,  and  it  was  long  ere  any  symptoms 
appeared  which  could  flatter  those  who  attended  him  with 
hopes  of  his  recovery ; when  able  to  sit  up  he  was  ordered  to 
return  to  Enniskillen,  where  he  could  be  immediately  under 
the  care  of  the  regimental  surgeon. 

Oscar’s  servant  accompanied  him  in  the  carriage,  and  as  it 
drove  slowly  along  he  was  agreeably  surprised  by  a view  of 
Mrs.  Marlowe’s  orchard  ; he  could  not  resist  the  wish  of  seeing 
her,  and  making  inquiries  relative  to  the  inhabitants  of  Wood- 
lawn  ; for  with  Mrs.  Marlowe,  I should  previously  say,  he  had 
not  only  formed  an  intimacy,  but  a sincere  friendship.  She 
was  a woman  of  the  most  pleasing  manners,  and  to  her  superin- 
tending care  Adela  was  indebted  for  many  of  the  graces  she 
possessed,  and  at  her  cottage  passed  many  delightful  hours 
with  Oscar. 

The  evening  was  far  advanced  when  Oscar  reached  the 
orchard,  and  leaning  on  his  servant,  slowly  walked  up  the  hill : 
had  a spectre  appeared  before  the  old  lady,  she  could  not  have 
seemed  more  shocked  than  she  now  did,  at  the  unexpected  and 
emaciated  appearance  of  her  young  friend.  With  all  the  ten- 
derness of  a fond  mother,  she  pressed  his  cold  hands  between 
her  own,  and  seated  him  by  the  cheerful  fire  which  blazed  on 
her  hearth,  then  procured  him  refreshments  that,  joined  to  her 
conversation,  a little  revived  his  spirits  ; yet,  at  this  moment  the 
recollection  of  the  first  interview  he  ever  had  with  her,  recurred 
with  pain  to  his  heart.  Our  friends  at  Woodlawn,  I hope,” 
cried  he — he  paused — but  his  eye  expressed  the  inquiry  his 
tongue  was  unable  to  make.  “They  are  well  and  happy,”  re« 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


109 

plied  Mrs.  Marlowe  ; and  you  know,  I suppose,  of  all  that 
has*lately  happened  there  1 ’’  ‘‘No,  I know  nothing  ; I am  as 

one  awoke  from  the  slumbers  of  the  grave.’’  “ Ere  I inform  you, 
then,”  cried  Mrs.  Marlowe,  “ let  me,  my  noble  Oscar,  express 
my  approbation,  my  admiration  of  your  conduct,  of  that  disin- 
terested nature  which  preferred  the  preservation  of  constancy 
to  the  splendid  independency  offered  to  your  acceptance.” 
“ What  splendid  independency  did  I refuse  ? ” asked  Oscar, 
wildly  staring  at  her.  “ That  which  the  general  offered.”  “ The 
general ! ” “ Yes,  and  appointed  Colonel  Belgrave  to  declare 

his  intentions.”  “ Oh  Heavens  ! ” exclaimed  Oscar,  starting 
from  his  chair;  “ did  the  general  indeed  form  such  intentions, 
and  has  Belgrave  then  deceived  me  ? He  told  me  my  atten- 
tions to  Miss  Honeywood  were  noticed  and  disliked  ! he  filled 
my  soul  with  unutterable  anguish,  and  persuaded  me  to  a false- 
hood which  has  plunged  me  into  despair  ! ” “ He  is  a mon- 

ster ! ” cried  Mrs.  Marlowe,  “ and  you  are  a victim  to  his 
treachery.”  “ Oh  no  1 I will  fly  to  the  general,  and  open  my 
whole  soul  to  him  ; at  his  feet  I will  declare  the  false  ideas  of 
honor  which  misled  me ; I shall  obtain  his  forgiveness,  and 
Adela  will  yet  be  mine.”  “ Alas  ! my  child,”  cried  Mr».  Mar- 
lowe, stopping  him  as  he  was  hurrying  from  the  room,  “ it  is 
now  too  late ; Adela  can  never  be  yours ; she  is  married,  and 
married  unto  Belgrave.”  Oscar  staggered  back  a few  paces, 
uttered  a deep  groan,  and  fell  senseless  at  her  feet.  Mrs. 
Marlowe’s  cries  brought  in  his  servant,  as  well  as  her  own,  to 
his  assistance  ; he  was  laid  upon  a bed,  but  it  was  long  ere  he 
showed  any  signs  of  recovery ; at  length,  opening  his  heavy 
eyes,  he  sighed  deeply,  and  exclaimed,  “ she  is  lost  to  me  for- 
ever ! ” 

The  servants  were  dismissed,  and  the  tender-hearted  Mrs. 
Marlowe  knelt  beside  him.  “ Oh  ! my  friend,”  said  she,  “ my 
heart  sympathizes  in  your  sorrow  ; but  it  is  from  your  own  for- 
titude, more  than  my  sympathy,  you  must  now  derive  resources 
of  support.”  “ Oh,  horrible  ! to  know  the  cup  of  happiness 
was  at  my  lips,  and  that  it  was  my  own  hand  dashed  it  from 
me.”  “ Such,  alas  ! ” said  Mrs.  Marlowe,  sighing,  as  if  touched 
at  the  moment  with  a similar  pang  of  self-regret,  “ is  the  way- 
wardness of  mortals  ; too  often  do  they  deprive  themselves  of 
the  blessings  of  a bounteous  Providence  by  their  own  folly  and 
imprudence — oh  ! my  friend,  born  as  you  were  with  a noble  in- 
genuity of  soul,  never  let  that  soul  again  be  sullied  by  the 
smallest  deviation  from  sincerity.”  Do  not  aggravate  my  suf- 
ferings,” said  Oscar,  “by  dwelling  on  my  error.”  “No,  I 


ito 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


would  sooner  die  than  be  guilty  of  such  barbarity ; but  admo- 
nition never  sinks  so  deeply  on  the  heart  as  in  the  hour  of 
trial.  Young,  amiable  as  you  are,  life  teems,  I doubt  not,  with 
various  blessings  to  you — blessings  which  you  will  know  how 
to  value  properly,  for  early  disappointment  is  the  nurse  of  wis- 
dom.’’ ‘‘  Alas  ! ” exclaimed  he,  what  blessings  ? ” “ These, 

at  least,”  cried  Mrs.  Marlowe,  ‘‘  are  in  your  own  power — the 
peace,  the  happiness,  which  ever  proceeds  from  a mind  con- 
scious of  having  discharged  the  incumbent  duties  of  life,  and 
patiently  submitted  to  its  trials.”  But  do  you  think  I will 
calmly  submit  to  his  baseness  ? ” said  Oscar,  interrupting  her. 
‘‘  No  ; Belgrave  shall  never  triumph  over  me  with  impunity  ! ” 
He  started  from  the  bed,  and,  rushing  into  the  outer  room, 
snatched  his  sword  from  the  table  on  which  he  had  flung  it  at 
his  entrance.  Mrs.  Marlowe  caught  his  arm.  ‘‘  Rash  young 
man  ! ” exclaimed  she,  whither  would  you  go — is  it  to  scatter 
ruin  and  desolation  around  you  ? Suppose  your  vengeance 
was  gratified,  would  that  restore  your  happiness  ? Think  you 
that  Adela,  the  child  of  virtue  and  propriety,  would  ever  notice 
the  murderer  of  her  husband,  how  unworthy,  soever,  that  hus- 
band might  be  ? Or  that  the  old  general,  who  so  fondly 
planned  your  felicity,  would  forgive,  if  he  could  survive,  the 
evils  of  his  house,  occasioned  by  you  'I  ” The  sword  dropped 
from  the  hand  of  the  trembling  Oscar.  I have  been  blame- 
able,”  cried  he,  ‘‘  in  allowing  myself  to  be  transported  to  such 
an  effort  of  revenge  ; I forgot  everything  but  that ; and  as  to 
my  own  life,  deprived  of  Adela,  it  appears  so  gloomy  as  to  be 
scarcely  worth  preserving.” 

Mrs.  Marlowe  seized  this  moment  of  yielding  softness  to 
advise  and  reason  with  him  ; her  tears  mingled  with  his,  as  she 
listened  to  his  relation  of  Belgrave’s  perfidy  ; tears  augmented 
by  reflecting  that  Adela,  the  darling  of  her  care  and  affections, 
was  also  a victim  to  it.  She  convinced  OsCar,  however,  that  it 
would  be  prudent  to  confine  the  fatal  secret  to  their  own  breasts  ; 
the  agitation  of  his  mind  was  too  much  for  the  weak  state  of  his 
health  ; the  fever  returned,  and  he  felt  unable  to  quit  the  cot- 
tage ; Mrs.  Marlowe  prepared  a bed  for  him,  trusting  he  would 
soon  be  able  to  remove,  but  she  was  disappointed ; it  was  long 
ere  Oscar  could  quit  the  bed  of  sickness  ; she  watched  over 
him  with  maternal  tenderness,  while  he,  like  a blasted  flower, 
seemed  hastening  to  decay. 

The  general  was  stung  to  the  soul  by  the  rejection  of  his 
offer,  which  he  thought  would  have  inspired  the  soul  of  Oscar 
with  rapture  and  gratitude ; never  had  his  pride  been  so  se/ 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


III 


verely  wounded — never  before  had  he  felt  humbled  in  his  own 
eyes : his  mortifying  reflections  the  colonel  soon  found  means 
to  remove,  by  the  most  delicate  flattery,  and  the  most  assiduous 
attention,  assuring  the  general  that  his  conduct  merited  not 
the  censure,  but  the  applause  of  the  world.  The  sophistry 
which  can  reconcile  us  to  ourselves  is  truly  pleasing ; the  col- 
onel gradually  became  a favorite,  and  when  he  insinuated  his 
attachment  for  Adela,  was  assured  he  should  have  all  the  gen- 
eral’s interest  with  her.  He  was  now  more  anxious  than  ever 
to  have  her  advantageously  settled;  there  was  something  so 
humiliating  in  the  idea  of  her  being  rejected,  that  it  drove  him 
at  times  almost  to  madness  : the  colonel  possessed  all  the  ad- 
vantages of  fortune  ; but  these  weighed  little  in  his  favor  with 
the  general  (whose  notions  we  have  already  proved  very  disin- 
terested), and  much  less  with  his  daughter ; on  the  first  over- 
ture about  him  she  requested  the  subject  might  be  entirely 
dropped  ; the  mention  of  love  was  extremely  painful  to  her. 
Wounded  by  her  disappointment  in  the  severest  manner,  her 
heart  required  time  to  heal  it ; her  feelings  delicacy  confined 
to  her  own  bosom  ; but  her  languid  eyes,  and  faded  cheeks, 
denoted  their  poignancy.  She  avoided  company,  and  was  per- 
petually wandering  through  the  romantic  and  solitary  paths 
which  she  and  Oscar  had  trod  together ; here  more  than  ever 
she  thought  of  him,  and  feared  she  had  treated  her  poor  com- 
panion unkindly ; she  saw  him  oppressed  with  sadness,  and 
yet  she  had  driven  him  from  her  by  the  repulsive  coldness  of 
her  manner — a manner,  too,  which,  from  its  being  so  suddenly 
assumed,  could  not  fail  of  conveying  an  idea  of  her  disappoint- 
ment ; this  hurt  her  delicacy  as  much  as  her  tenderness,  and 
she  would  have  given  worlds,  had  she  possessed  them,  to  recall 
the  time  when  she  could  have  afforded  consolation  to  Oscar,  and 
convinced  him  that  solely  as  a friend  she  regarded  him.  The 
colonel  was  not  discouraged  by  her  coldness  ; he  was  in  the 
habit  of  conquering  difficulties,  and  doubted  not  that  he  should 
overcome  any  she  threw  in  his  way ; he  sometimes,  as  if  by 
chance,  contrived  to  meet  her  in  her  rambles  ; his  conversation 
was  always  amusing,  and  confined  within  the  limits  she  had 
prescribed ; but  his  eyes,  by  the  tenderest  expression,  declared 
the  pain  he  suffered  from  this  proscription,  and  secretly  pleased 
Adela,  as  it  convinced  her  of  the  implicit  deference  he  paid  to 
her  will. 

Some  weeks  had  elapsed  since  Oscar’s  voluntary  exile  from 
Woodlawn,  and  sanguine  as  were  the  colonel’s  hopes,  he  found 
without  a stratagem  they  would  not  be  realized,  at  least  as 


ty.2 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


soon  as  ne  expected : fertile  in  invention,  he  was  not  long  m 
concerting  one.  He  followed  Adela  one  morning  into  the  gar- 
den, and  found  her  reading  in  the  arbor ; she  laid  aside  the 
book  at  his  entrance,  and  they  chatted  for  some  time  on  indif- 
ferent subjects.  The  colonebs  servant  at  last  appeared  with 
a large  packet  of  letters,  which  he  presented  to  his  master,  who, 
with  a hesitating  air,  was  about  putting  them  into  his  pocket, 
when  Adela  prevented  him  : — Make  no  ceremony,  colonel,” 
said  she,  ‘‘with  me;  I shall  resume  my  book  till  you  have 
perused  your  letters.”  The  colonel  bowed  for  her  permission 
and  began ; her  attention  was  soon  drawn  from  her  book  by 
the  sudden  emotion  he  betrayed  ; he  started,  and  exclaimed, 
“ Oh  heavens  ! what  a wretch  ! ” then,  as  if  suddenly  recollect- 
ing his  situation,  looked  at  Adela,  appeared  confused,  stam- 
mered out  a few  inarticulate  words,  and  resumed  his  letter; 
when  finished,  he  seemed  to  put  it  into  his  pocket,  but  in  real- 
ity dropped  it  at  his  feet  for  the  basest  purpose.  He  ran  over 
the  remainder  of  the  letters,  and  rising,  entreated  Adela  to  ex- 
cuse his  leaving  her  so  abruptly,  to  answer  some  of  them.  Soon 
after  his  departure,  Adela  perceived  an  open  letter  lying  at  her 
feet ; she  immediately  took  it  up  with  an  intention  of  returning 
to  the  house  with  it,  when  the  sight  of  her  own  name,  in  capital 
letters,  and  in  the  well-known  hand  of  Fitzalan,  struck  her 
sight ; she  threw  the  letter  on  the  table  ; an  universal  tremor 
siezed  her ; she  would  have  given  any  consideration  to  know 
why  she  was  mentioned  in  a correspondence  between  Belgrave 
and  Fitzalan  ; her  eye  involuntarily  glanced  at  the  letter ; she 
saw  some  words  in  it  which  excited  still  more  strongly  her  curi- 
osity ; it  could  no  longer  be  repressed ; she  snatched  it  up^ 
and  read  as  follows  : — 

TO  COLONEL  BELGRAVE* 

You  accuse  me  of  insensibility  to,  what  you  call  the  matchless  charms  of 
Adela,  an  accusation  I acknowledge  I merit  ; but  why,  because^  I have 
been  too  susceptible  to  those  of  another,  which  in  the  fond  estimation  of  a 
lover  (at  least),  appear  infinitely  superior  The  general’s  offer  was  cer- 
tainly a most  generous  and  flattering  one,  and  has  gratified  every  feeling  of 
my  soul,  by  giving  me  an  opportunity  of  sacrificing,  at  the  shrine  of  love, 
ambition  and  self-interest  ; my  disinterested  conduct  has  confirmed  me  in 
the  affections  of  my  dear  girl,  whose  vanity  I cannot  help  thinking  a little 
elevated  by  the  triumph  I have  told  her  she  obtained  over  Adela  ; but  this 
is  excusable  indeed  when  we  consider  the  object  I relinquished  for  her 
Would  to  heaven  the  general  was  propitious  to  your  wishes  ; it  would  yield 
me  much  happiness  to  see  you,  my  first  and  best  friend,  in  possession  of  a 
treasure  you  have  long  sighed  for.  I shall,  iao  doubt,  receive  a long  lecture 


7'HE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


153 

from  you  for  letting  the  affair  relative  to  Adela  be  made  known,  but  faiths,  I 
could"  not  resist  telling  my  charmer.  Heaven  grant  discretion  may  seal  her 
lips  ; if  not,  I suppose  I shall  be  summoned  to  formidable  combat  with  the 
old  general.  Adieu  I and  believe  me, 

Dear  colonel,  ever  yours, 

Oscar  Fitzalan. 

^‘Wretch  1 ” cried  the  agitated  Adela,  dropping  the  letter 
(which  it  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  was  an  infamous  forgery) 
in  an  agony  of  grief  and  indignation,  “ is  this  the  base  return 
we  meet  for  our  wishes  to  raise  you  to  prosperity  ? Oh  ! cruel 
Fitzalan,  is  it  Adela — who  thought  you  so  amiable,  and  who 
never  thoroughly  valued  wealth,  till  she  believed  it  had  given 
her  the  power  of  conducing  to  your  felicity — whom  you  hold  up 
as  an  object  of  ridicule  for  unfeeling  vanity  to  triumph  over?’’ 
Wounded  pride  and  tenderness  raised  a whirl  of  contending 
passions  in  her  breast  ; she  sunk  upon  the  bench,  her  head 
rested  on  her  hand,  and  sighs  and  tears  burst  from  her.  She 
now  resolved  to  inform  Fitzalan  she  knew  the  baseness  of  his 
conduct,  and  sting  his  heart  with  keen  reproaches  : now  resolved 
to  pass  it  over  in  silent  contempt.  While  thus  fluctuating,  the 
colonel  softly  advanced  and  stood  before  her  : in  the  tumult 
of  her  mind  she  had  quite  forgot  the  probability  of  his  returning, 
and  involuntarily  screamed  and  started  at  his  appearance.  By 
her  confusion,  she  doubted  not  but  he  would  suspect  her  of 
having  perused  the  fatal  letter.  Oppressed  by  the  idea,  her 
head  sunk  on  her  bosom,  and  her  face  was  covered  with  blushes. 

What  a careless  fellow  I am  ! ” said  the  colonel,  taking  up 
the  letter,  which  he  then  pretended  to  perceive  ; he  glanced  at 
Adela.  “ Curse  it ! ” continued  he,  ‘‘  I would  rather  have  had 
all  the  letters  read  than  this  one.”  He  suspects  me,  thought 
Adela  ; her  blushes  faded,  and  she  fell  back  on  her  seat,  unable 
to  support  the  oppressive  idea  of  having  acted  against  the  rules 
of  propriety.  Belgrave  flew  to  support  her  ; ‘‘  Loveliest  of 
women  ! ” he  exclaimed,  and  with  all  the  softness  he  could 
assume,  “ what  means  this  agitation  ? ” “ I have  been  suddenly 

affected,”  answered  Adela,  a little  recovering,  and,  rising,  she 
motioned  to  return  to  the  house.  “ Thus,”  answered  the 
colonel,  you  always  fly  me ; but  go.  Miss  Honeywood ; I 
have  no  right,  no  attraction,  indeed,  to  detain  you  : yet,  be 
assured,”  and  he  summoned  a tear  to  his  aid,  while  he  pressed 
her  hand  to  his  bosom,  “ a heart  more  truly  devoted  to  you 
than  mine  you  can  never  meet ; but  I see  the  subject  is  painful, 
and  again  I resume  the  rigid  silence  you  have  imposed  on  me ; 
go,  then,  most  lovely  and  beloved,  and  since  I dare  not  aspire 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


I14 

to  a higher,  allow  me,  at  least,  the  title  of  your  friend/’  Most 
willingly,”  said  Adela,  penetrated  by  his  gentleness.  She  was 
now  tolerably  recovered,  and  he  prevailed  on  her  to  walk 
instead  of  returning  to  the  house  ; she  felt  soothed  by  his 
attention  ; his  insidious  tongue  dropped  manna ; he  gradually 
stole  her  thoughts  from  painful  recollections  ; the  implicit  re- 
spect he  paid  her  will  flattered  her  wounded  pride,  and  her 
gratitude  was  excited  by  knowing  he  resented  the  disrespectful 
mention  of  her  name  in  Fitzalan’s  letter  ; in  short,  she  felt 
esteem  and  respect  for  him — contempt  and  resentment  for 
Oscar.  The  colonel  was  too  penetrating  not  to  discover  her 
sentiments,  and  too  artful  not  to  take  advantage  of  them.  Had 
Adela,  indeed,  obeyed  the  real  feelings  of  her  heart,  she  would 
have  declared  against  marrying  ; but  pride  urged  her  to  a step 
which  would  prove  to  Fitzalan  his  conduct  had  not  affected  her. 
The  general  rejoiced  at  obtaining  her  consent,  and  received  a 
promise  that  for  some  time  she  should  not  be  separated  from 
him.  The  most  splendid  preparations  were  made  for  the  nup- 
tials ; but  though  Adela’s  resentment  remained  unabated,  she 
soon  began  to  wish  she  had  not  been  so  precipitate  in  obeying 
it ; an  involuntary  repugnance  rose  in  her  mind  against  the 
connection  she  was  about  forming,  and  honor  alone  kept  her 
from  declining  it  forever  : her  beloved  friend,  Mrs.  Marlowe, 
supported  her  throughout  the  trying  occasion,  and,  in  an  inau- 
spicious hour,  Adela  gave  her  hand  to  the  perfidious  Belgrave. 

About  a fortnight  after  her  nuptials,  she  heard  from  some 
of  the  officers  of  Oscar’s  illness  ; she  blushed  at  his  name. 
“ Faith,”  cried  one  of  them,  “ Mrs.  Marlowe  is  a charming 
woman ; it  is  well  he  got  into  such  snug  quarters  : I really 
believe  elsewhere  he  would  have  given  up  the  ghost.”  “ Poor 
fellow,”  said  Adela,  sighing  heavily,  yet  without  being  sensible 
of  it.  Belgrave  rose,  he  caught  her  eye,  a dark  frown  lowered 
on  his  brow,  and  he  looked  as  if  he  would  pierce  into  the 
recesses  of  her  heart  : she  shuddered,  and  for  the  first  time, 
felt  the  tyranny  she  had  imposed  upon  herself.  As  Mrs. 
Marlowe  chose  to  be  silent  on  the  subject,  she  resolved  not  to 
mention  it  to  her ; but  she  sent  every  day  to  invite  her  to 
Woodlawn,  expecting  by  this  to  hear  something  of  Oscar  \ but 
she  was  disappointed.  At  the  end  of  a fortnight,  Mrs.  Mar- 
lowe made  her  appearance  , she  looked  pale  and  thin.  Adela 
gently  reproved  her  for  her  long  absence,  trusting  this  would 
oblige  her  to  allege  the  reason  of  it  , but  no  such  thing.  Mrs. 
Marlowe  began  to  converse  on  indifferent  subjects Adela 
suddenly  grew  peevish,  and  sullenly  sat  at  hei*  work* 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


IIS 

In  a few  days  after  Mrs.  Marlowe’s  visit,  Adela,  one  evening 
immediately  after  dinner,  ordered  the  carriage  to  the  cottage ; 
by  this  time  she  supposed  Oscar  had  left  it,  and  flattered  her- 
self, in  the  course  of  conversation,  she  should  learn  whether  he 
was  perfectly  recovered  ere  he  departed.  Proposing  to  sur- 
prise her  friend,  she  stole  by  a winding  path  to  the  cottage,  and 
softly  opened  the  parlor  door ; but  what  were  her  feelings, 
when  she  perceived  Oscar  sitting  at  the  fireside  with  Mrs. 
Marlowe,  engaged  in  a deep  conversation  ! She  stopped, 
unable  to  advance.  Mrs.  Marlowe  embraced  and  led  her 
forward.  The  emotions  of  Oscar  were  not  inferior  to  Adela’s. 
He  attempted  to  rise,  but  could  not.  A glance  from  the  ex- 
pressive eyes  of.  Mrs.  Marlowe,  which  seemed  to  conjure  him 
not  to  yield  to  a weakness  which  would  betray  his  real  senti- 
ments to  Adela,  somewhat  reanimated  him.  He  rose,  and 
tremblingly  approached  her.  “ Allow  me,  mad^m,”  cried  he, 

“ to ” The  sentence  died  unfinished  on  his  lips  ; he  had 

not  power  to  offer  congratulations  on  an  event  which  had 
probably  destroyed  the  happiness  of  Adela,  as  well  as  his  own. 
‘‘  Oh  ! a truce  with  compliments,”  said  Mrs.  Marlowe,  forcing 
herself  to  assume  a cheerful  air  ; prithee,  good  folks,  let  us  be 
seated,  and  enjoy,  this  cold  evening,  the  comforts  of  a good 
fire.”  She  forced  the  trembling,  the  almost  fainting,  Adela  to 
take  some  wine,  and  by  degrees  the  flutter  of  her  spirits  and 
Oscar’s  abated,  but  the  sadness  of  their  countenances,  the 
anguish  of  their  souls,  increased.  The  cold  formality,  the 
distant  reserve  they  both  assumed,  filled  each  with  sorrow  and 
regret.  So  pale,  so  emaciated,  so  woe-begone  did  Fitzalan 
appear,  so  much  the  son  of  sorrow  and  despair,  that  had  he 
half  murdered  Adela,  she  could  not  at  that  moment  have  felt 
for  him  any  other  sentiments  than  those  of  pity  and  compassion. 
Mrs.  Marlowe,  in  a laughing  way,  told  her  of  the  troubles  she 
had  had  with  him  : ‘‘  for  which,  I assure  you,”  said  she,  he 
rewards  me  badly ; for  the  moment  he  was  enlarged  from  the 
nursery,  he  either  forgot  or  neglected  all  the  rules  I had  laid 
down  for  him.  Pray  do  join  your  commands  to  mine,  and 
charge  him  to  take  more  care  of  himself.”  I would,  most 
willingly,”  cried  Adela,  ‘‘if  I thought  they  would  influence  him 
to  do  so.”  “ Influence  ! ” repeated  Oscar,  emphatically  ; “ oh, 
heavens  ! ” then  starting  up,  he  hurried  to  the  window,  as  if  to 
hide  and  to  indulge  his  melancholy.  The  scene  he  viewed 
from  it  was  dreary  and  desolate.  It  was  now  the  latter  end  of 
autumn  \ the  evening  was  cold,  a savage  blast  howled  from  the 
hills,  and  the  sky  was  darkened  by  a coming  storm.  Mrs# 


Xt6  the  child  re  h of  the  abbey. 

Marlowe  roused  him  from  his  deep  reverie.  ‘‘  I am  sure,”  said 
she,  the  prospect  you  view  from  the  window  can  have  no 
great  attractions  at  present.’’  ‘‘And  yet,”  cried  he,  “there 
is  something  sadly  pleasing  in  it : the  leafless  trees,  the 
fading  flowers  of  autumn,  excite  in  my  bosom  a kind  of 
mournful  sympathy ; they  are  emblems  to  me  of  him  whose 
tenderest  hopes  have  been  disappointed ; but,  unlike  him, 
they,  after  a short  period,  shall  again  flourish  with  primeval 
beauty.”  “Nonsense,”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Marlowe  ; “your  ill- 
ness has  affected  your  spirits  ; but  this  gloom  will  vanish  long 
before  my  orchard  reassumes  its  smiling  appearance,  and  haply 
attracts  another  smart  redcoat  to  visit  an  old  woman.”  “Oh  ! 
with  what  an  enthusiasm  of  tenderness,”  cried  Oscar,  “ shall  I 
ever  remember  the  dear,  though  dangerous,  moment  I first* 
entered  this  cottage!”  “Now,  no  flattery,  Oscar,”  said  Mrs, 
Marlowe  ; “ I know  your  fickle  sex  too  well  to  believe  I have 
made  a lasting  impression ; why,  the  very  first  fine  old  woman 
you  meet  at  your  ensuing  quarters,  will,  I dare  say,  have  similar 
praise  bestowed  on  her.”  “ No,”  replied  he,  with  a languid 
smile  ; “ I can  assure  you,  solemnly,  the  impression  which  has 
been  made  on  my  heart  will  never  be  effaced.”  He  stole  a 
look  at  Adela ; her  head  sunk  upon  her  bosom,  and  her  heart 
began  to  beat  violently.  Mrs.  Marlov/e  wished  to  change  the 
subject  entirely  ; she  felt  the  truest  compassion  for  the  unhappy 
young  couple,  and  had  fervently  desired  their  union  ; but 
since  irrevocably  separated,  she  wished  to  check  any  intima- 
tion of  a mutual  attachment,  which  now  could  answer  no  pur- 
pose but  that  of  increasing  their  misery.  She  rung  for  tea, 
and  endeavored  by  her  conversation  to  enliven  the  tea-table  ; 
the  effort  however,  was  not  seconded.  “You  have  often,’^ 
cried  she,  addressing  Adela,  as  they  again  drew  their  chairs 
round  the  fire,  “ desired  to  hear  the  exact  particulars  of  my 
life ; unconquerable  feelings  of  regret  hitherto  prevented  my 
acquiescing  in  your  desire ; but,  as  nothing  better  now  offers 
for  passing  away  the  hours,  I will,  if  you  please,  relate  them.” 

“ You  will  oblige  me  by  so  doing,”  cried  Adela;  “my  curiosity, 
you  know,  has  been  long  excited’^ 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Ilf 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


“ But  mine  the  sorrow,  mine  the  fault* 

And  well  my  life  shall  pay ; 

I’ll  seek  the  solitude  he  sought, 

And  stretch  me  where  he  lay.” — Goldsmith.  • 

To  begin,  then,  as  they  say  in  a novel,  without  further 
preface,  I was  the  only  child  of  a country  curate,  in  the  southern 
part  of  England,  who,  like  his  wife,  was  of  a good,  but  reduced 
family.  Contented  dispositions  and  an  agreeable  neighborhood, 
ready  on  every  occasion  to  oblige  them,  rendered  them,  in 
their  humble  situations,  completely  happy.  I was  the  idol  of 
both  their  hearts  ; every  one  told  my  mother  I should  grow  up 
a beauty,  and  she,  poor  simple  woman,  believed  the  flattering 
tale.  Naturally  ambitious,  and  somewhat  romantic,  she  ex- 
pected nothing  less  than  my  attaining,  by  my  charms,  an  elevated 
situation ; to  fit  me  to  it,  therefore,  according  to  her  idea,  she 
gave  me  all  the  showy,  instead  of  solid,  advantages  of  educa- 
tion. My  father  being  a meek,  or  rather  an  indolent  man, 
submitted  entirely  to  her  direction  ; thus,  without  knowing  the 
grammatical  part  of  my  own  language,  I was  taught  to  gabble 
bad  French  by  myself ; and,  instead  of  mending  or  making  my 
clothes,  to  flourish  upon  catgut  and  embroider  satin.  I was 
taught  dancing  by  a man  who  kept  a cheap  school  for  that 
purpose  in  the  village  ; music  I could  not  aspire  to,  my  mother’s 
finances  being  insufficient  to  purchase  an  instrument ; she  was 
therefore  obliged  to  content  herself  with  my  knowing  the  vocal 
part  of  that  delightful  science,  and  instructed  me  in  singing  a 
few  old-fashioned  airs,  with  a thousand  graces,  in  her  opinion 
at  least. 

To  make  me  excel  by  my  dress,  as  well  as  my  accomplish- 
ments,  all  the  misses  of  the  village,  the  remains  of  her  finery 
were  cut  and  altered  into  every  form  which  art  or  ingenuit}^ 
could  suggest;  and.  Heaven  forgive  me,  but  my  chief  induce- 
ment in  going  to  church  on  a Sunday  was  to  exhibit  my  flounced 
silk  petticoat  and  painted  chip  hat. 

When  I attained  my  sixteenth  year,  my  mother  thought  me, 
and  supposed  every  one  else  must  do  the  same,  the  most  per- 
fect creature  in  the  v;orld.  I was  lively,  thoughtless,  vain,  and 
ambitious  to  an  extravagant  degree ; yet,  truly  innocent  in  my 


nS  the  children  of  the  abbey.  . 

disposition,  and  often,  forgetting  the  appearance  1 had  been 
taught  to  assume,  indulged  the  natural  gayety  of  my  heart, 
and  in  a game  of  hide-and-go-seek,  amongst  the  haycocks  in  a 
meadow,  by  moonlight,  enjoyed  perfect  felicity. 

Once  a week,  accompanied  by  my  mother,  I attended  the 
dancing-master’s  school,  to  practise  country  dances.  One 
evening  we  had  just  concluded  a set,  and  were  resting  our- 
selves, when  an  elegant  youth,  in  a fashionable  riding  dress, 
entered  the  room.  His  appearance  at  once  excited  admira- 
tion and  surprise;  never  shall  I forget  the  palpitation  of  my 
heart  at  his  approach ; every  girl  experienced  the  same,  every 
cheek  was  flushed,  and  every  eye  sparkled  with  hope  and 
expectation.  He  walked  round  the  room,  with  an  easy,  unem- 
barrassed air,  as  if  to  take  a survey  of  the  company ; he 
stopped  by  a very  pretty  girl,  the  miller’s  daughter — good 
heavens ! what  were  my  agonies  ! My  mother,  too,  who  sar 
beside  me,  turned  pale,  and  would  actually,  I believe,  have 
fainted,  had  he  taken  any  farther  notice  of  her ; fortunately 
he  did  not,  but  advanced.  My  eyes  caught  his ; he  again 
paused,  looked  surprised  and  pleased,  and,  after  a moment, 
passed  in  seeming  consideration,  bowed  with  the  utmost  ele- 
gance, and  requested  the  honor  of  my  hand  for  the  ensuing 
dance.  My  politeness  had  hitherto  only  been  in  theory;  I 
arose,  dropped  him  a profound  curtsey,  assured  him  the 
honor  would  be  all  on  my  side,  and  I was  happy  to  grant  his 
request.  He  smiled,  I thought,  a little  archly,  and  coughed  to 
avoid  laughing ; I blushed,  and  felt  embarrassed  ; but  he  led 
me  to  the  head  of  the  room  to  call  a dance,  and  my  triumph 
over  my  companions  so  exhilarated  my  spirits,  that  I immedi- 
ately lost  all  confusion. 

I had  been  engaged  to  a young  farmer,  and  he  was  enraged, 
not  only  at  my  breaking  my  engagement  without  his  permission, 
but  at  the  superior  graces  of  my  partner,  who  threatened  to 
be  a formidable  rival  to  him.  By  jingo  ! ” said  Clod,  coming 
up  to  me  in  a surly  manner,  “ I think.  Miss  Fanny,  you  have 
not  used  me  quite  genteelly;  I don’t  see  why  this  here  fine 
spark  should  take  the  lead  of  us  all.”  “ Creature  ! cried  I, 
with  an  ineffable  look  of  contempt,  which  he  could  not  bear, 
and  retired  grumbling.  My  partner  could  no  longer  refrain 
from  laughing  ; the  simplicity  of  my  manners,  notwithstanding 
the  airs  I endeavored  to  assume,  highly  delighted  him.  “No 
wonder,”  cried  he,  “ the  poor  swain  should  be  mortified  at 
losing  the  hand  of  his  charming  Fanny.” 

The  dancing:  over,  we  rejoined  my  mother,  who  was  on 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


119 


thorns  to  begin  a conversation  with  the  stranger,  that  she 
might  let  him  know  we  were  not  to  be  ranked  with  the  present 
company.  “ I am  sure,  sir,’’  said  she,  “ a gentleman  of  your 
elegant  appearance  must  feel  rather  awkward  in  the  present 
party ; it  is  so  with  us,  as,  indeed,  it  must  be  with  every  person 
of  fashion  ; but,  in  an  obscure  little  village  like  this,  v/e  must 
not  be  too  nice  in  our  society,  except,  like  a hermit,  we  could 
do  without  any.”  The  stranger  assented  to  whatever  she 
said,  and  accepted  an  invitation  to  sup  with  us ; my  mother 
instantly  sent  an  intimation  of  her  w*^i  to  my  father,  to  have, 
not  the  fatted  calf,  indeed,  but  the  fatted  duck  prepared ; and 
he  and  the  maid  used  such  expedition,  that,  by  the  tin>e  we 
returned,  a neat,  comfortable  supper  was  ready  to  lay  on  the 
table.  Mr.  Marlowe,  the  stranger’s  name,  as  he  informed  me, 
was  all  animation  and  affability:  it  is  unnecessary  to  say,  th?^"*^ 
my  mother,  father,  and  myself,  were  all  complaisance,  delight, 
and  attention.  On  departing,  he  asked,  and  obtained,  permis- 
sion, of  course,  to  renew  his  visit  the  next  day;  and  my  mothev 
immediately  set  him  down  as  her  future  son-in-law. 

As  everything  is  speedily  communicated  in  such  a small, 
village  as  we  resided  in,  we  learned  on  the  preceding  evening 
he  had  stopped  at  the  inn,  and,  hearing  music,  had  inquired 
from  whence  it  proceeded,  and  had  gone  out  of  curiosity  to 
the  dance.  We  also  learned  that  his  attendants  reported  him 
to  be  heir  to  a large  fortune ; this  report,  vain  as  I was,  wan 
almost  enough  of  itself  to  engage  my  heart ; judge,  then, 
whether  it  was  not  an  easy  conquest  to  a person,  who,  besides 
the  above-mentioned  attraction,  possessed  those  of  a graceful 
figure  and  cultivated  mind.  He  visited  continually  at  out 
cottage  ; and  I,  uncultivated  as  I was,  daily  strengthened  my- 
self in  his  affections.  In  conversing  with  him,  I forgot  the 
precepts  of  vanity  and  affectation,  and  obeyed  the  dictates  cf 
nature  and  sensibility.  He  soon  declared  the  motives  of  his 
visits  to  me — to  have  immediatel}^  demanded  my  hand  ” he 
said,  ‘‘  would  have  gratified  the  tenderest  wish  of  his  soul ; 
but,  in  his  present  situation,  that  was  impossible — left,  at 
an  early  age,  destitute  and  distressed,  by  the  death  oi  his 
parents,  an  old  whimsical  uncle,  married  to  a woman  equally 
capricious,  had  adopted  him  as  heir  to  their  large  possessions 
• — he  found  it  difficult,”  he  said,  to  submit  to  their  'jll-humor, 
and  was  confident,  if  he  took  any  step  against  their  inclinations, 
he  should  forever  forfeit  their  favor ; therefore,  if  my  parents 
would  allow  a reciprocal  promise  to  /^ass  between  binding 
each  to  each,  the  moment  he  became  master  of  expected  for- 


120 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


tune,  or  obtained  an  independence,  he  would  make  me  a partake? 
of  it.’’  They  consented,  and  he  enjoined  us  to  the  strictest 
secrecy,  saying,  one  of  his  attendants  was  placed  about  him 
as  a kind  of  spy.  He  had  hitherto  deceived  him  with  respect 
to  us,  declaring  my  father  was  an  intimate  friend,  and  that  his 
uncle  knew  he  intended  visiting  him.  But  my  unfortunate 
vanity  betrayed  the  secret  it  was  so  material  for  me  to  keep. 
I was  bound  indeed  not  to  reveal  it.  One  morning  a young 
girl  who  had  been  an  intimate  acquaintance  of  mine  till  I knew 
Marlowe,  came  to  see  me,  Why,  Fanny,”  cried  she,  “ you  have 
given  us  all  up  for  Mr.  Marlowe  ; take  care,  my  dear,  he  makes 
you  amends  for  the  loss  of  your  other  friends.”  I shall-  take 
your  advice,”  said  I,  with  a smile  and  a conceited  toss  of  my 
head.  Faith,  for  my  part,”  continued  she,  “ I think  you 
were  very  foolish  not  to  secure  a good  settlement  for  yourself 
with  Clod.”  “ With  Clod  ! ” repeated  I,  with  the  utmost 
haughtiness.  ‘‘  Lord,  child,  you  forget  who  I am  ! ” Who 
are  you  ? ” exclaimed  she,  provoked  at  my  insolence  ; oh,  yes, 
to  be  sure,  I forget  that  you  are  the  daughter  of  a poor  country 
curate,  with  more  pride  in  your  head  than  money  in  your  purse.” 

Neither  do  I forget,”  said  I,  that  your  ignorance  is  equal  to 
your  impertinence ; if  I am  the  daughter  of  a poor  country 
curate,  I am  the  affianced  wife  of  a rich  man,  and  as  much 
elevated  by  expectation,  as  spirit,  above  you.” 

Our  conversation  was  repeated  throughout  the  village,  and 
reached  the  ears  of  Marlowe’s  attendant,  who  instantly  devel- 
oped the  real  motive  which  detained  him  so  long  in  the  village. 
Fie  wrote  to  his  uncle  an  account  of  the  whole  affair ; the  con- 
sequence of  this  was  a letter  to  poor  Marlowe,  full  of  the 
bitterest  reproaches,  charging  him,  without  delay,  to  return 
home.  This  was  like  a thunder-stroke  to  us  all  \ but  there 
was  no  alternative  between  obeying,  or  forfeiting  his  uncle’s 
favor.  I fear,  my  dear  Fanny,”  cried  he,  as  he  folded  me  to, 
his  bosom,  a little  before  his  departure,  “ it  will  be  long  ere  we 
shall  meet  again ; nay,  I also  fear  I shall  be  obliged  to  promise 
not  to  write ; if  both  these  fears  are  realized,  impute  not  either 
absence  or  silence  to  a want  of  the  tenderest  affection  for  you.” 
He  went,  and  with  him  all  my  happiness  ! My  mother,  shortly 
after  his  departure,  v/as  attacked  by  a nervous  fever,  which 
terminated  her  days  ; my  father,  naturally  of  weak  spirits  and 
delicate  constitution,  was  so  shocked  by  the  sudden  death  of  his 
beloved  and  faithful  companion,  that  he  sunk  beneath  his 
grief.  The  horrors  of  my  mind  I cannot  describe  ; I seemed 
to  stand  alone  in  the  world,  without  one  friendly  hand  to  prevent 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


121 


my  sinking  into  the  grave,  which  contained  the  dearest  objects 
of  my  love.  I did  not  know  where  Marlowe  lived,  and,  even 
if  I had,  durst  not  venture  an  application,  which  might  be  the 
means  of  ruining  him.  The  esteem  of  my  neighbors  I had 
forfeited  by  my  conceit ; they  paid  no  attention  but  what  com* 
mon  humanity  dictated,  merely  to  prevent  my  perishing ; and 
that  they  made  me  sensibly  feel.  In  this  distress,  I received 
an  invitation  from  a school-fellow  of  mine,  who  had  married 
a rich  farmer  about  forty  miles  from  our  village,  to  take  up  my 
residence  with  her  till  I was  sufficiently  recovered  to  fix  on 
some  plan  for  subsistence.  I gladly  accepted  the  offer,  and 
after  paying  a farewell  visit  to  the  grave  of  my  regretted  parents, 
I set  off  in  the  cheapest  conveyance  I could  find  to  her  habita- 
tion, with  all  my  worldly  treasure  packed  in  a portmanteau. 

With  my  friend  I trusted  I should  enjoy  a calm  and  happy 
asylum  till  Marlowe  was  able  to  fulfil  his  promise,  and  allow 
me  to  reward  her  kindness  ; but  this  idea  she  soon  put  to  flight, 
by  informing  me,  as  my  health  returned,  I must  think  of  some 
method  for  supporting  myself.  I started,  as  at  the  utter  anni- 
hilation of  all  my  hopes  ; for,  vain  and  ignorant  of  the  world,  I 
imagined  Marlowe  would  never  think  of  me  if  once  disgraced 
by  servitude.  I told  her  I understood  little  of  anything  except 
fancy  work.  She  was  particularly  glad,  she  said,  to  hear  I 
knew  that,  as  it  would,  in  all  probability,  gain  me  admittance 
to  the  service  of  a rich  old  lady  in  the  neighborhood,  who  had 
long  been  seeking  for  a person  who  could  read  agreeably  and 
do  fancy  works,  with  which  she  delighted  to  ornament  her 
house.  She  was  a little  whimsical,  to  be  sure,  she  added,  but 
well-timed  flattery  might  turn  those  whims  to  advantage ; and, 
if  I regarded  my  reputation,  I should  not  reject  so  respectable 
a protection.  There  was  no  alternative ; I inquired  more 
particularly  about  her,  but  how  great  was  my  emotion,  when  I 
learned  she  was  the  aunt  of  Marlowe.  My  heart  throbbed  with 
exquisite  delight  at  the  idea  of  being  in  the  same  house  with 
him  ; besides,  the  service  of  his  aunt  would  not,  I flattered  my- 
self, degrade  me  as  much  in  his  eyes  as  that  of  another  person’s ; 
it  was  necessary,  however,  my  name  should  be  concealed,  and 
I requested  my  friend  to  comply  with  my  wish  in  that  respect. 
She  rallied  me  about  my  pride,  which  she  supposed  had  sug- 
gested the  request,  but  promised  to  comply  with  it ; she  had  no 
doubt  but  her  recommendation  would  be  sufficient  to  procure 
me  immediate  admittance,  and,  accordingly,  taking  some  of  my 
work  with  me,  I proceeded  to  the  habitation  of  Marlowe. 
was  an  antique  mansion,  surrounded  with  neat-clipped  hedges^ 


122 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


level  lawns,  and  formal  plantations.  Two  statues,  cast  in  the 
same  mould,  and  resembling  nothing  either  in  heaven,  earth,  or 
sea,  stood  grinning  horribly  upon  the  pillars  of  a massy  gate,  as 
if  to  guard  the  entrance  from  impertinent  intrusion.  On  knock' 
ing,  an  old  porter  appeared.  I gave  him  my  message,  but  he, 
like  the  statues,  seemed  stationary,  and  would  not,  I believe, 
have  stirred  from  his  situation  to  deliver  an  embassy  from  the 
king.  He  called,  however,  to  a domestic,  who,  happening  to 
be  a little  deaf,  was  full  half  an  hour  before  he  heard  him  ; at 
last,  I was  ushered  up  stairs  into  an  apartment,  from  the  heat 
of  which  one  might  have  conjectured  it  was  under  the  torrid 
zone.  Though  in  the  middle  of  July,  a heavy  hot  fire  burned 
in  the  grate  ; a thick  carpet,  representing  birds  beasts,  and 
flowers,  was  spread  on  the  floor,  and  the  windows,  closely 
screwed  down,  ^vere  heavy  with  woodwork,  and  darkened  with 
dust.  The  master  and  mistress  of  the  mansion,  like  Darby  and 
Joan,  sat  in  arm-chairs  on  each  side  of  the  fire  ; three  dogs,  and 
as  many  cats,  slumbered  at  their  feet  He  was  leaning  on  a 
spider-table,  poring  over  a voluminous  book,  and  she  was  stitch- 
ing a counterpane.  Sickness  and  ill-nature  were  visible  in  each 
countenance.  So  ! ” said  she,  raising  a huge  pair  of  spectacles 
at  my  entrance,  and  examining  me  from  head  to  foot,  “ you  are 
come  from  Mrs.  Wilson’s  ; wh}’,  bless  me,  child,  you  are  quite 
too  young  for  any  business  ; pray,  what  is  your  name,  and 
•where  do  you  come  from  ? ” I was  prepared  for  these  questions, 
and  told  her  the  truth,  only  concealing  my  real  name,  and.  the 
place  of  my  nativity.  “ Well,  let  me  see  those  works  of  yours,” 
qried  she.  I produced  them,  and  the  spectacles  were  again 
drawn  down.  ‘‘  Why,  they  are  neat  enough,  to  be  sure,”  said 
she,  “ but  the  design  is  bad — very  bad,  indeed  : there  is  taste, 
there  is  execution  ! ” directing  me  to  some  pictures,  in  heavy 
gilt  frames,  hung  round  the  room.  I told  her,  with  sincerity, 
‘‘  I had  never  seen  anything  like  them.”  ‘‘  To  be  sure,  child,” 
exclaimed  she,  pleased  at  what  she  considered  admiration  in  me, 
it  is  running  a great  risk  to  take  you  ; but  if  you  think  you 
can  conform  to  the  regulations  of  my  house,  1 will,  from  com- 
passion, and  as  you  are  recommended  by  Mrs.  Wilson,  venture 
to  engage  you ; but,  remember,  I must  have  no  gad-about,  no 
fly-flapper,  no  chatterer,  in  my  family.  You  must  be  decent  in 
your  dress  and  carriage,  discreet  in  your  words,  industrious  at 
your  work,  and  satisfied  with  the  indulgence  of  going  to  church 
on  a Sunday.”  I saw  I was  about  entering  upon  a painful  ser- 
vitude ; but  the  idea  of  its  being  sweetened  by  the  syi30tiat.hv  of 
Marlowe  a little  reconciled  me  to  it 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


123 


On  promising  all  she  desired,  everything  was  settled  for  my 
admission  into  her  family,  and  she  took  care  I should  perform 
the  promises  I made  her.  I shall  not  recapitulate  the  various 
trials  I under  vent  from  her  austerity  and  peevishness ; suffice 
it  to  say,  my  patience,  as  well  as  taste,  underwent  a perfect  mar- 
tyrdom. I was  continually  seated  at  a frame,  working  pictures 
of  her  own  invention,  which  were  everything  that  was  hideous 
in  nature.  I was  never  allowed  to  go  out,  except  on  a Sunday 
to  church,  or  on  a chance  evening  when  it  was  too  dark  to  dis- 
tinguish colors, 

Marlowe  was  absent  on  my  entering  the  family,  nor 
durst  I ask  when  he  was  expected.  My  health  and  spirits 
gradually  declined  from  my  close  confinement.  When  allowed, 
as  I have  before  said,  of  a chance  time  to  go  out,  instead  of 
enjoying  the  fresh  air,  I have  sat  down  to  weep  over  scenes 
of  former  happiness.  I dined  constantly  with  the  old  house- 
keeper. . She  informed  me,  one  day,  that  Mr.  Marlowe,  her 
master’s  young  heir,  who  had  been  absent  some  time  on  a 
visit,  was  expected  home  on  the  ensuing  day.  Fortunately, 
the  good  dame  was  too  busily  employed  ’to  notice  my  agita- 
tion. I retired  as  soon  as  possible  from  the  table,  in  a 
state  of  indescribable  pleasure.  Never  shall  I forget  my 
emotions,  when  I heard  the  trampling  of  his  horse’s  feet,  and 
saw  him  enter  the  house  ! Vainly  I endeavored  to  resume  my 
work  ; my  hands  trembled,  and  I sunk  back  on  my  chair,  to 
indulge  the  delightful  idea  of  an  interview  with  him,  which  I 
believed  to  be  inevitable.  My  severe  task-mistress  soon 
awakened  me  from  me  delightful  dream  ; she  came  to  tell  me  •. 

I must  confine  myself  to  my  own  and  the  housekeeper’s  room, 
which,  to  a virtuous,  discreet  maiden,  such  as  I appeared  to  be, 
she  supposed  would  be  no  hardship,  while  her  nephew,  who  was 
a young,  perhaps  rather  a wild  young  man,  remained  in  the 
house  : when  he  again  left  it,  which  would  soon  be  the  case,  I 
should  regain  my  liberty.”  My  heart  sunk  within  me  at  her 
words,  but,  when  the  first  shock  was  over,  I consoled  myself  by 
thinking  I should  be  able  to  elude  her  vigilance.  I was,  how- 
ever, mistaken  ; she  and  the  housekeeper  were  perfect  Arguses. 
To  be  in  the  same  house  with  Marlowe,  yet  without  his  know- 
ing it,  drove  me  almost  distracted. 

I at  last  thought  of  an  expedient,  which,  I hoped,  would 
effect  the  discovery  I wanted.  I had  just  finished  a piece  of 
work,  which  my  mistress  was  delighted  with.  It  was  an  enor- 
mous flower-basket,  mounted  on  the  back  of  a cat,  which  held 
beneath  its  paw  a trembling  mouse.  The  raptures  the  old  lad/ 


124 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


expressed  at  seeing  her  own  design  so  ably  executed  encouraged 
me  to  ask  permission  to  embroider  a picture  of  my  own  design- 
ing, for  which  I had  the  silks  lying  by  me.  She  complied,  and 
I set  about  it  with  alacrity.  I copied  my  face  and  figure  as 
exactly  as  I could,  and,  in  mourning  drapery  and  a pensive 
attitude,  placed  the  little  image  by  a rustic  grave,  in  the  church- 
yard of  my  native  village,  at  the  head  of  which,  half  embowered 
in  trees,  appeared  the  lovely  cottage  of  my  departed  parents. 
These  well-known  objects,  I thought,  would  revive,  if  indeed 
she  was  absent  from  it,  the  idea  of  poor  Fanny  in  the  mind  of 
Marlowe.  I presented  the  picture  to  my  mistress,  who  was 
pleased  with  the  present,  and  promised  ta  have  it  framed.  The 
next  day  whilq,  I sat  at  dinner,  the  door  suddenly  opened,  and 
Marlowe  entered  the  room.  I thought  I should  have  fainted. 
My  companion  dropped  her  knife  and  fork  with  great  precipita- 
tion, and  Marlowe  told  her  he  was  very  ill,  and  wanted  a cordial 
from  her.  She  rose  with  a dissatisfied  air,  to  comply  with  his 
request.  He,  taking  this  opportunity  of  approaching  a little 
nearer,  darted  a glance  of  pity  and  tenderness,  and  softly 
whispered — To-night,  at  eleven  o’clock,  meet  me  in  the  front 
parlor.” 

You  may  conceive  how  tardily  the  hours  passed  till  the 
appointed  time  came,  when,  stealing  to  the  parlor,  I found 
Marlowe  expecting  me.  He  folded  me  to  his  heart,  and  his 
tears  mingled  with  mine,  as  I related  my  melancholy  tale. 

You  are  now,  my  Fanny  ! ” he  cried,  ‘‘  entirely  mine  ; deprived 
of  the  protection  of  your  tender  parents  I shall  endeavor  to 
fulfil  the  sacred  trust  they  reposed  in  my  honor,  by  securing 
mine  to  you,  as  far  as  lies  in  my  power.  I was  not  mistaken,” 
continued  he,  “ in  the  idea  I had  formed  of  the  treatment  I 
should  receive  from  my  flinty-hearted  relations  on  leaving  you. 
Had  I not  promised  to  drop  ail  correspondence  with  you,  I 
must  have  relinquished  all  hopes  of  their  favor.  Bitter,  indeed,” 
cried  he,  while  a tear  started  in  his  eye,  “ is  the  bread  of  depend- 
ence. Ill  could  my  soul  submit  to  the  indignities  I received  ; 
but  I consoled  myself  throughout  them,  by  the  idea  of  future 
happiness  with  my  Fanny.  Had  I known  her  situation  (which, 
indeed,  it  was  impossible  I should,  as  my  uncle’s  spy  attended 
me  wherever  I went),  no  dictate  of  prudence  would  have 
prevented  my  flying  to  her  aid  ! ” Thank  Heaven,  then,  you 
were  ignorant  of  it,”  said  I.  My  aunt,”  he  proceeded, 
‘‘  showed  me  your  work,  lavishing  the  highest  encomiums  on  it. 
I glanced  my  eye  carelessly  upon  it,  but,  in  a moment,  how  was 
' that  careless  eye  attracted  by  the  well  known  objects  presented 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


I2S 

to  it  ! this,  I said  to  my  heart,  can  only  be  Fanny’s  work.  I 
tried  to  discover  from  my  aunt  whether  my  conjectures  were 
wrong,  but  without  success.  When  I retired  to  dress,  I asked 
my  servant  if  there  had  been  any  addition  to  the  family  during 
my  absence  ; he  said  a young  woman  was  hired  to  do  fine  works, 
but  she  never  appeared  among  the  servants.’’ 

Marlowe  proceeded  to  say,  ‘‘  he  could  not  bear  I should 
longer  continue  in  servitude,  and  that  without  delay  he  was 
resolved  to  unite  his  fate  to  mine.”  I opposed  this  resolution 
a little  ; but  soon,  too  self-interested,  I fear,  acquiesce-d  in  it. 
It  was  agreed  I should  inform  his  aunt  my  health  would  no 
longer  permit  my  continuing  in  her  family,  and  that  I should 
retire  to  a village  six  miles  off,  where  Marlowe  undertook  to 
bring  a young  clergyman,  a particular  friend  of  his,  to  perform 
the  ceremony.  Our  plan,  as  settled,  was  carried  into  execution, 
and  I became  the  wife  of  Marlowe.  I was  now,  you  will  sup- 
pose, elevated  to  the  pinnacle  of  happiness ; I was  so,  indeed, 
but  my  own  folly  precipitated.me  from  it.  The  secrecy  I was 
compelled  to  observe  mortified  me  exceedingly,  as  I panted  to 
emerge  from  the  invidious  cloud  which  had  so  long  concealed 
my  beauty  and  accomplishments  from  a world  that  I was 
confident,  if  seen,  would  pay  them  the  homage  they  merited. 
The  people  with  whom  I lodged  had  ])een  obliged  by  Marlowe, 
and,  therefore,  from  interest  and  gratitude,  obeyed  the  injunc- 
tion he  gave  them,  of  keeping  my  residence  at  their  house 
a secret ; they  believed,  or  affected  to  believe,  I was  an 
orphan  committed  to  his  care,  whom  his  uncle  would  be  dis- 
pleased to  know  he  had  taken  under  his  protection.  Three  or 
four  times  a week  I received  stolen  visits  from  Marlowe,  when, 
one  day  (after  a month  had  elapsed  in  this  manner)  standing  at 
the  parlor  window,  I saw  Mrs.  Wilson  walking  down  the  village. 
I started  back,  but  too  late  to  escape  her  observation ; she 
immediately  bolted  into  the  room  with  all  the  eagerness  of 
curiosity.  I bore  her  first  interrogatories  tolerably  well,  but 
when  she  upbraided  me  for  leaving  the  excellent  service  she 
had  procured  for  me,  for  duplicity  in  saying  I was  going  to  an- 
other, and  for  my  indiscretion  in  respect  to  Marlowe,  I lost  all 
command  of  my  temper,  and,  remembering  the  inhumanity 
with  which  she  had  forced  me  into  servitude,  I resolved  to 
mortify  her  completely,  by  assuming  all  the  airs  I had  heretofore 
BO  ridiculously  aspired  to.  Lolling  in  my  chair,  with  an  air  of 
\he  most  careless  indifference,  I bid  her  no  longer  petrify  me  with 
her  discourse.  This  raised  all  the  violence  of  rage,  and  she 
plainly  told  me,  ‘‘  from  my  conduct  with  Marlowe,  I was  un* 


126 


THE  CHILDREJSr  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


worthy  her  notice.’^  ^‘Therefore/’  cried  I,  forgettmg  every 
dictate  of  prudence,  his  wife  will  neither  desire  nor  receive  it 
in  future/’  His  wife  ! ” she  repeated,  with  a look  of  scorn  and 
incredulity.  I produced  the  certificate  of  my  marriage  ; thus, 
from  an  impulse  of  vanity  and  resentment,  putting  myself  in 
the  power  of  a woman,  a stranger  to  every  liberal  feeling,  and 
whose  mind  was  inflamed  with  envy  towards  me.  The  hint  I 
■forced  myself  at  parting  to  give  her,  to  keep  the  affair  secret, 
only  determined  her  more  strongly  to  reveal  it.  The  day  after 
her  visit,  Marlowe  entered  my  apartment — pale,  agitated,  and 
breathless,  he  sunk  into  a chair.  A pang,  like  conscious  guilt, 
sm-ote  my  heart,  and  I trembled  as  I approached  him.  He 
repulsed  me  when  I attempted  to  touch  his  hand.  Cruel, 
inconsiderate  woman  ! ” he  said,  ‘‘  to  what  dreadful  lengths  has 
your  vanity  hurried  you  ; it  has  drawn  destruction  upon  your 
own  head  as  well  as  mine ! ” Shame  and  remorse  tied  my 
tongue  ; had  I spoken,  indeed,  I could  not  have  vindicated 
myself,  and  I turned  aside  and  wept.  Marlowe,  mild,  tender, 
and  adoring,  could  not  long  retain  resentment;  he  started  from 
his  chair,  and  clasped  me  to  his  bosom.  “ Oh,  Fanny  ! ” he 
cried,  ‘‘  though  you  have  ruined  me,  you  are  still  dear  as  ever 
to  me.” 

This  tenderness  affected  me  even  more  than  reproaches,  and 
tears  and  sighs  declared  my  penitence.  His  expectations  relative 
to  his  uncle  were  finally  destroyed,  on  being  informed  of  our  mar- 
riage, which  Mrs.  Wilson  lost  no  time  in  telling  him.  He 
burned  his  will,  and  immediately  made  another  in  favor  of  a 
distant  relation.  On  hearing  this  intelligence,  I was  almost  dis- 
tracted ; I flung  myself  at  my  husband’s  feet,  implored  his  par- 
don, yet  declared  I could  never  forgive  myselfi  He  grew  more 
composed  upon  the  increase  of  my  agitation,  as  if  purposely 
to  soothe  my  spirits,  assuring  me,  that,  though  his  uncle’s 
favor  was  lost,  he  had  other  friends  on  whom  he  greatly 
depended.  We  set  off  for  London,  and  found  his  dependence 
was  not  ill-placed  ; for,  soon  after  his  arrival,  he  obtained  a 
place  of  considerable  emolument  in  one  of  the  public  offices. 
My  husband  delighted  in  gratifying  me,  though  I was  often  both 
extravagant  and  whimsical,  and  almost  ever  on  the  wing  for 
admiration  and  amusement.  I was  reckoned  a pretty  woman,  and 
received  with  rapture  the  nonsense  and  adulation  addressed  to 
me.  I became  acquainted  with  a young  widow,  who  concealed  a 
depraved  heart  under  a specious  appearance  of  innocence  and 
virtue,  and  by  aiding  the  vices  of  others,  procured  the  means 
of  gratifying  her  own  ; yet  so  secret  were  all  her  transactions. 


I2if 


THE  CniI.DREN  OE  THE  ABBEY. 

that  calumny  bad  not  yet  attacked  her,  and  her  house  was 
the  rendezvous  of  the  most  fashionable  people.  My  husband, 
who  did  not  dislike  her  manner,  encouraged  our  intimacy,  and 
at  her  parties  I was  noticed  by  a young  nobleman,  then  at  the 
head  of  the  ton.  He  declared  I was  one  of  the  mos^f  charming 
objects  he  had  ever  beheld,  and,  for  such  a declaration,  I thought 
him  the  most  polite  I had  ever  known.  As  Lord  T.  condescended 
to  wear  my  chains,  I must  certainly,  I thought,  become  quite 
the  rage.  My  transports,  however,  were  a little  checked  by  the 
grave  remonstrances  of  my  husband,  who  assured  me  Lord  T. 
was  a famous,  or  rather  an  infamous  libertine ; and  that,  if  I 
did  not  avoid  his  lordship’s  particular  attentions,  he  must  insist 
on  my  relinquishing  the  widow’s  society.  This  I thought  cruel, 
but  I saw  him  resolute,  and  promised  to  act  as  he  desired — a 
promise  I never  adhered  to,  except  when  he  was  present.  I 
was  now  in  a situation  to  promise  an  increase  of  family,  and 
Marlowe  wished  me  to  nurse  the  child.  The  tenderness  of  my 
heart  seconding  his  wish,  I resolved  on  obeying  it ; but  when 
the  widow  heard  my  intention  she  laughed  at  it,  and  said  it  was 
absolutely  ridiculous,  for  the  sake  of  a squalling  brat,  to  give 
up  all  the  pleasures  of  life  ; besides,  it  would  be  much  better 
taken  care  of  in  some  of  the  villages  about  London.  I denied 
this ; still,  however,  she  dwelt  on  the  sacrifices  I must  make, 
the  amusements  I must  give  up,  and  at  last  completely  con- 
quered my  resolution.  I pretended  to  Marlowe  my  health  was 
too  delicate  to  allow  me  to  bear  such  a fatigue  and  he  imme- 
diately sacrificed  his  own  inclinations  to  mine.  I have  often 
wondered  at  the  kind  of  infatuation  with  which  he  complied 
with  all  my  desires!  My  little  girl,  almost  as  soon  as  born,  was 
sent  from^e ; but,  on  being  able  to  go  out  again,  I received  a 
considerable  shock,  from  hearing  my  noble  admirer  was  gone 
to  the  Continent,  owing  to  a trifling  derangement  in  his  affairs. 
The  vain  pursuits  of  pleasure  and  dissipation  were  still  con- 
tinued. Three  years  passed  in  this  manner,  during  which  I 
had  a son,  and  my  little  girl  was  brought  home.  I have  since 
often  felt  astonished  at  the  cold  indifference  with  which  I re- 
garded my  Marlowe,  and  our  lovely  babe,  on  whom  he  doated 
with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  tenderness.  Alas  ! vanity  had  then 
absorbed  my  heart,  and  deadened  every  feeling  of  nature  and 
sensibility ; it  is  the  parent  of  self-love  and  apathy,  and  degrades 
those  who  harbor  it  below  humanity. 

Lord  T.  now  returned  from  the  Continent ; he  swore  my  idea 
had  never  been  absent  from  his  mind,  and  that  I was  more 
charming  than  ever ; while  I thought  him,  if  possible,  more 


128 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


polite  and  engaging.  Again  iny  husband  remonstrated.  Some^- 
tirnes  I seemed  to  regard  these  remonstrances,  sometimes  pro- 
tested I would  not  submit  to  such  unnecessary  control.  I knew, 
indeed,  that  my  intentions  were  innocent,  and  I believed  I might 
safely  indulge  my  vanity,  without  endangering  either  my  repu- 
tation or  peace.  About  this  time  Marlowe  received  a summons 
to  attend  a dying  friend  four  miles  from  London.  Our  little 
girl  was  then  in  a slight  fever,  which  had  alarmed  her  father, 
and  confined  me  most  unwillingly,  I must  confess,  to  the  house. 
Marlowe,  on  the  point  of  departing,  pressed  me  to  his  breast : 
“My  heart,  my  beloved  Fanny!’’  said  he,  “feels  unusually 
heavy.  I trust  the  feeling  is  no  presentiment  of  approaching 
ill.  Oh  1 my  Fanny  1 on  you  and  my  babe,  I rest  for  happiness 
— take  care  of  our  little  cherub,  and  above  all  (his  meek  eye 
encountering  mine),  take  care  of  yourself,  that,  with  my  accus- 
tomed rapture,  I may,  on  my  return,  receive  you  to  my  arms.” 
There  was  something  so  solemn,  and  so  tender,  in  this  address, 
that  my  heart  melted,  and  my  tears  mingled  with  those  which 
trickled  down  his  pale  cheeks.  For  two  days  I attended  my 
child  assiduously,  when  the  widow  made  her  appearance.  She 
assured  me  I should  injure  myself  by  such  close  confinement, 
and  that  my  cheeks  were  already  faded  by  it.  She  mentioned 
a delightful  masquerade  which  was  to  be  given  that  night,  and 
for  which  Lord  had  presented  her  with  tickets  for  me  and 
herself ; but  she  declared,  except  I would  accompany  her,  she 
would  not  go.  I had  often  wished  to  go  to  a masquerade ; I 
now,  however,  declined  this  opportunity  of  gratifying  my  incli- 
nation, but  so  faintly,  as  to  prompt  a renewal  of  her  solicita- 
tions, to  which  I at  last  yielded  ; and,  committing  my  babe  to 
the  care  of  a servant,  set  off  with  the  widow  to  a wanehouse  to 
choose  dresses.  Lord  T.  dined  with  us,  and  we  were  all  in  the 
highest  spirits  imaginable  : about  twelve  we  went  in  his  chariot 
to  the  Haymarket,  and  I was  absolutely  intoxicated  with  his 
flattery,  and  the  dazzling  objects  around  me.  At  five  we  quitted 
this  scene  of  gayety.  The  widow  took  a chair;  I would  have 
followed  her  example,  but  my  Lord  absolutely  lifted  me  into 
his  chariot,  and  there  began  talking  in  a strain  which  provoked 
my  contempt,  and  excited  my  apprehensions.  I expressed  my 
displeasure  in  tears,  which  checked  his  boldness,  and  convinced 
him  he  had  some  difficulties  yet  to  overcome  ere  he  completed 
his  designs.  He  made  his  apologies  with  so  much  humility,  that 
I was  soon  appeased,  and  prevailed  on  to  accept  them.  We 
arrived  at  the  widow’s  house  in  as  much  harmony  as  we  left  it  : 
the  flags  were  wet,  and  Lord  T.  insisted  on  carrying  me  into 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


129 

the  house.  At  the  door  I observed  a man  muffled  up,  but  as 
no  one  noticed  him,  I thought  no  more  about  it.  We  sat  down 
to  supper  in  high  spirits,  and  chatted  for  a considerable 
time  about  our  past  amusements.  His  lordship  said : After  a 
little  sleep  we  should  recruit  ourselves  by  a pleasant  jaunt  to 
Richmond,  where  he  had  a charming  villa.”  We  agreed  to  his 
proposal,  and  retired  to  rest.  About  noon  we  arose ; and,  while 
I was  dressing  myself  for  the  projected  excursion,  a letter  was 
brought  in  to  me.  “ Good  Lord ! Halcot ! ” exclaimed  I,  turn- 
ing to  the  widow,  if  Marlowe  is  returned,  what  will  become 
of  me  ? ” Oh ! read,  my  dear  creature,”  cried  she  impatiently, 
“ and  then  we  can  think  of  excuses.”  I have  the  letter  here,” 
continued  Mrs.  Marlowe,  laying  her  hand  to  her  breast,  and 
drawing  it  forth  after  a short  pause,  I laid  it  tc  my  heart  to 
guard  it  against  future  folly.” 

THE  LETTER. 

The  presages  of  my  heart  were  but  too  true — we  parted  never  to  meet 
again.  Oh!  Fanny,  beloved  of  my  soul,  how  are  you  lost  to  yourself  and 
Marlowe ! The  independence,  splendor,  riches,  which  I gave  up  for  your 
sake,  were  mean  sacrifices,  in  my  estimation,  to  the  felicity  I fondly  ex- 
pected to  have  enjoyed  with  you  through  life.  Your  beauty  charmed  my 
mind,  but  it  was  your  simplicity  captivated  my  heart.  I took,  as  I thought, 
the  perfect  child  of  innocence  and  sincerity  to  my  bosom  ; resolved,  from 
duty,  as  well  a(3  from  inclination,  to  shelter  you  in  that  bosom,  to  the  ut- 
most of  my  power,  from  every  adverse  storm.  Whenever  you  were  indis- 
posed, what  agonies  did  I endure ! yet,  what  1 then  dreaded,  could  I have 
possibly  foreseen,  would  have  been  comparative  happiness  to  my  present 
misery!  for,  oh!  my  Fanny,  far  more  preferable  would  it  have  been  to  be- 
hold you  in  the  arms  of  death  than  infamy. 

I returned  immediately  after  witnessing  the  last  pangs  of  my  friend — 
oppressed  with  the  awful  scene  of  dea^h,  yet  cheering  my  spirits  by  an  anti- 
cipation of  the  consolation  I should  receive  from  my  Fanny’s  sympathy. 
Good  God!  what  was  my  horror,  when  I found  my  little  babe,  instead  of 
being  restored  to  health  by  a mother’s  care,  nearly  expiring  through  her 
neglect ! The  angel  lay  gasping  on  her  bed,  deserted  by  the  mercenary 
wretch  to  whose  care  she  was  consigned.  I inquired,  and  the  fatal  truth 
rushed  upon  my  soul ; yet,  when  the  first  tumult  of  passion  had  subsided, 
I felt  that,  without  yet  stronger  proofs,  I could  not  abandon  you.  Alas ! 
too  soon  did  I receive  those  proofs.  I traced  you,  Fanny,  through  your 
giddy  round,  till  I saw  you  borne  in  the  arms  of  the  vile  Lord  T.  into  the 
house  of  his  vile  paramour.  You  will  wonder,  perhaps,  I did  not  tear  you 
from  his  grasp.  Could  such  a procedure  have  restored  you  to  me,  with  all 
your  unsullied  innocence,  I should  not  have  hesitated;  but  that  was  impos- 
sible, and  my  eyes  then  gazed  upon  Fanny  for  the  last  time.  I returned 
to  my  motherless  babe,  ard,  I am  not  ashamed  to  say,  I wept  over  it  with 
all  the  agonies  of  a fond  and  betrayed  heart. 

Ere  I bid  an  irrevocable  adieu,  1 would,  if  possible,  endeavor  to  convince 
you  that  conscience  cannot  always  be  stifled — that  illicit  love  is  constantly 
attended  by  remorse  and  disap.pointment;  for,  when  familiarity,  or  disease, 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.^ 


130 

has  diminished  the  charms  which  excited  it,  the  frail  fetters  of  admiration 
aie  broken  by  him  vho  looks  only  to  an  exterior  for  delight;  if,  indeed, 
your  conscience  should  not  be  awakened  till  this  hour  of  desertion  comes, 
when  it  does  arrive,  you  may,  perhaps,  think  of  Marlowe.  Yes,  Fanny, 
when  your  cheeks  are  faded  by  care,  when  your  wit  is  enfeebled  by  despond- 
ency, you  may  think  of  him  whose  tenderness  would  have  outlived  both 
time  and  change,  and  supported  yon,  without  abatement,  through  every 
stage  of  life. 

To  stop  short  in  the  career  of  vice  is,  they  say,  the  noblest  effort  of 
virtue.  May  such  an  effort  be  yours;  and  may  you  yet  give  joy  to  the 
angels  of  heaven,  who,  we  are  taught  to  believe,  rejoice  over  them  that 
truly  repent  i That  want  should  strew  no  thorns  in  the  path  of  penitence, 
all  that  I could  take  from  my  babe  I have  assigned  to  you.  Oh ! my  dear 
culprit,  remember  the  precepts  of  your  early  youth — of  those  who,  sleeping 
in  the  dust,  are  spared  the  bitter  tear  of  anguish,  such  as  I now  shed — and, 
ere  too  late,  expiate  your  errors.  In  the  solitude  to  which  I am  hastening, 
I shall  continually  pray  for  you;  and  when  my  child  raises  its  spotless  hands 
to  Heaven,  it  shall  implore  its  mercy  for  erring  mortals;  yet,  think  not  it 
shall  ever  hear  your  story.  Oh ! never  shall  the  blush  of  shame,  for  the 
frailties  of  one  so  dear,  tinge  its  ingenuous  countenance.  May  the  sin- 
cerity of  your  repentance  restore  that  peace  and  brightness  to  your  life, 
which,  at  present,  I think  you  must  have  forfeited,  and  support  you  with 
fortitude  through  its  closing  period ! As  a friend,  once  dear,  you  will  ever 
exist  in  the  memory  of 

Marlowe. 

As  I concluded  the  letter,  my  spirits,  which  had  been  gradu- 
ally receding,  entirely  forsook  me,  and  I fell  senseless  on  the 
floor.  Mrs.  Halcot  and  Lord  T.  took  this  opportunity  of  gra- 
tifying their  curiosity  by  perusing  the  letter,  and  when  I recov- 
ered, I found  myself  supported  between  them.  “You  see,  my 
dear  angel,”  cried  Lord  T.,  “ your  cruel  husband  has  entirely 
abandoned  you;  but  grieve  not,  for  in  my  arms  you  shall  find  a 
kinder  asylum  than  he  ever  afforded  you.”  “ True,”  said  Mrs. 
Halcot;  “for  my  part,  I think  she  has  reason  to  rejoice  at  his 
desertion.” 

I shall  not  attempt  to  repeat  all  I had  said  to  them  in  the 
height  of  my  distraction.  Suffice  it  to  say,  I reproached  them 
both  as  the  authors  of  my  shame  and  misery;  and,  while  I 
spurned  Lord  T.  indignantly  from  my  feet,  accused  Mrs.  Hal- 
cot of  possessing  neither  delicacy  nor  feeling.  Alas!  accusation 
or  reproach  could  not  lighten  the  weight  on  my  heart — I felt  a 
dreadful  consciousness  of  having  occasioned  my  own  misery. 
I seemed  as  if  awakening  from  a disordered  dream  which  had 
confused  my  senses ; and  the  more  clearly  my  perception  of 
what  was  right  returned,  the  more  bitterly  I lamented  my 
deviation  from  it.  To  be  reinstated  in  the  esteem  and  affec- 
tion of  my  husband  was  all  of  felicity  I could  desire  to  possess. 
Full  of  the  idea  of  being  able  to  effect  a reconciliation,  I started 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


13 1 

Up ; but,  ere  I reached  the  door,  sunk  into  an  agony  ot  tears  : 
recollecting  that  ere  this  he  was  probably  far  distant  from  me. 
My  base  companions  tried  to  assuage  my  grief,  and  make  me 
in  reality  the  wretch  poor  Marlowe  supposed  me  xo  be.  1 
heard  them  in  silent  contempt,  unable  to  move,  till  a servant 
informed  me  a gentleman  below  stairs  desired  to  see  me.  The 
idea  of  a relenting  husband  instantly  occurred,  and  I flew 
down  ; but  how  great  was  my  disappointment  only  to  see  a 
particular  friend  of  his  ! Our  meeting  was  painful  in  the 
extreme.  I asked  him  if  he  knew  anything  of  Marlowe,  and 
he  solemnly  assured  me  he  did  not.  When  my  confusion  and 
distress  had  a little  subsided,  he  informed  me  that  in  the 
morning  he  had  received  a letter  from  him,  with  an  account  of 
our  separation,  and  the  fatal  cause  of  it.  The  letter  contained 
a deed  of  settlement  on  me  of  a small  paternal  estate,  and  a 
bill  of  fifty  pounds,  which  Marlowe  requested  his  friend  to 
present  himself  to  me.  He  also  added  my  clothes  were  sent 
to  his  house,  as  out*  lodgings  had  been  discharged.  I did  not 
find  it  difficult  to  convince  this  gentleman  of  my  innocence, 
afnd,  putting  myself  under  his  protection,  was  immediately 
conveyed  to  lodgings  in  a retired  part  of  the  town.  Here  he 
consoled  me  with  assurances  of  using  every  effort  to  discover 
the  residence  of  my  husband.  All,  alas  ! proved  unsuccessful  j 
and  my  health  gradually  declined.  As  time  wore  away,  my 
hope  yet  left  still  undiminished  my  desire  of  seeing  him. 
Change  of  air  was  at  last  deemed  requisite  to  preserve  my 
existence,  and  I went  to  Bristol.  I had  the  good  fortune  to 
lodge  in  the  house  with  an  elderly  Irish  lady,  whose  sweet  and 
benevolent  manner  soon  gained  my  warmest  esteem,  and 
tempted  me  to  divulge  my  melancholy  tale,  where  so  certain 
of  obtaining  pity.  She  had  also  suffered  severely  from  the 
pressure  of  sorrow  ; but  hers,  as  it  proceeded  not  from  impru- 
dence, but  the  common  vicissitudes  of  life,  was  borne  witliout 
that  degree  of  anguish  mine  occasioned.  As  the  period  ap- 
proached for  her  return  to  her  native  country,  I felt  the  deepest 
regret  at  the  prospect  of  our  separation,  which  she,  however,  re- 
moved, by  asking  me  to  reside  entirely  with  her.  Eight  years 
had  elapsed  since  the  loss  of  my  husband,  and  no  latent  hope 
of  his  return  remained  in  my  heart  sufficiently  strong  to  tempt 
me  to  forego  the  advantages  of  such  society.  Ere  I departed, 
however,  I wrote  to  several  of  his  friends,  informing  them  of 
the  step  I intended  taking,  and,  if  any  tidings  of  Marlowe 
occurred,  where  I was  to  be  found.  Five  years  I passed  with 
my  valuable  friend  in  retirement,  and  had  the  pleasure  of 


132 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


thinking  I contributed  to  the  ease  of  her  last  moments.  This 
cottage,  with  a few  acres  adjoining  it,  and  four  hundred  pounds, 
was  all  her  wealth,  ^d  to  me  she  bequeathed  it,  having  no 
relations  whose  wants  gave  them  any  claim  upon  her. 

The  events  I have  just  related  will,  I hope,  strengthen  the 
moral  so  many  wish  to  impress  upon  the  minds  of  youth, 
namely — that,  without  a strict  adherence  to  propriety,  there  can 
be  no  permanent  pleasure  ; and  that  it  is  the  actions  of  early 
life  must  give  to  old  age  either  happiness  and  comfort,  or 
sorrow  and  remorse.  Had  I attended  to  the  admonitions  of 
wisdom  and  experience,  I should  have  checked  my  wanderings 
from  prudence,  and  preserved  my  happiness  from  being  sacri- 
ficed at  the  shrine  of  vanity ; then,  instead  of  being  a solitary 
in  the  world,  I might  have  had  my  little  fireside  enlivened  by 
the  partner  of  my  heart,  and,  perhaps,  my  children’s  children 
sporting  around  ; but  suffering  is  the  proper  tax  we  pay  for 
folly ; the  frailty  of  human  nature,  the  prevalence  of  example, 
the  allurements  of  the  world,  are  mentioned  by  many  as  ex- 
tenuations for  misconduct.  Though  virtue,  say  they,  is  willing, 
she  is  often  too  weak  to  resist  the  wishes  they  excite.  Mis- 
taken idea  ! and  blessed  is  that  virtue  which,  opposing,  ends 
them.  With  every  temptation  we  have  the  means  of  escape  ; 
and  woe  be  to  us  if  we  neglect  those  means,  or  hesitate  to  dis' 
entangle  ourselves  from  the  snare  which  vice  or  folly  may 
have  spread  around  us.  Sorrow  and  disappointment  are 
incident  to  mortality,  and  when  not  occasioned  by  any  con- 
scious imprudence,  should  be  considered  as  temporary  trials 
from  Heaven  to  improve  and  correct  us,  and  therefore  cheer- 
fully be  borne.  A sigh  stole  from  Oscar  as  she  spoke,  and  a 
tear  trickled  down  the  soft  cheek  of  Adela.  “ I have,”  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Marlowe,  given  you,  like  an  old  woman,  a tedious 
tale  ; but  that  tediousness,  with  every  other  imperfection  I 
have  acknowledged,  I rest  upon  your  friendshio  and  candor  to 
excuse.” 


THE  CHILDREN  OR  THE  ABBEY. 


»33 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


Denied  her  sight,  he  often  crept 
Beneath  the  hawthorn’s  shade  ; 

To  maik  the  spot  in  wh’ch  she  wept — 

It  which  she  wept  and  prayed.” — Mallet, 

The  night  waa  waning  fast,  and  Aclela  rose  to  depart  as 
her  friend  conchided  her  story  ; yet  it  required  an  effort  of 
resolution  to  retire.  Mrs.  Marlowe,  however,  was  too  well 
convinced  of  the  expediency  and  propriety  of  this  to  press  her 
longer  stay,  though  the  eyes  of  Oscar,  suddenly  turned  to  her, 
seemed  to  entreat  she  would  do  so.  The  night  was  dark  and 
wet,  which  prevented  Mrs.  Marlowe  from  accompanying  Adela 
to  the  carriage.  Not  so  Oscar;  he  took  the  umbrella  from  the 
servant,  who  held  it  for  his  mistress,  and  bid  him  hasten  on  to 
have  the  carriage-door  opened.  Oscar,’’  cried  Mrs.  Marlowe, 
extremely  unwilling  to  allow  even  this  short  tete-a-tete^  Mrs. 
Belgrave  will  dispense  with  your  gallantry,  for  you  are  really 
too  great  an  invalid  to  venture  out  such  a night  as  this.”  Adela 
attempted  to  dissuade  him  from  it,  but  her  voice  was  so  low 
and  faltering  as  scarcely  to  be  articulate.  Oscar  gently  seized 
her  hand,  and  pulled  it  under  his  arm  ; he  felt  it  tremble  as  he 
did  so.  The  touch  became  contagious  ; an  universal  tremor 
affected  his  frame,  and  never,  perhaps,  had  he  and  Adela  ex- 
perienced a moment  of  greater  unhappiness.  Adela  at  last 
found  herself  obliged  to  speak,  conscious  that  her  silence  must 
appear  particular,  and  said,  she  feared  he  would  be  injured  by 
his  attentions  to  her.  More  fatally  injured  than  he  already 
was,  he  might  have  replied,  he  could  not  be ; but  he  checked 
the  words  ready  to  burst  from  his  lips,  and  only  answered  that 
he  would  be  unfit  for  a soldier,  if  he  could  not  endure  the 
inclemency  of  the  wintry  blast.  The  light  from  the  globes  of 
the  carriage  gave  him  a view  of  her  pale  lovely  cheeks,  and  he 
saw  she  was  weeping.  Confused  at  the  idea  of  betraying  her 
distress,  she  averted  her  head,  and  hastily  ascended  the  steps ; 
yet,  for  a moment,  her  trembling  hand  rested  upon  Oscar’s,  as 
if,  in  this  manner,  she  would  have  given  the  adieu  she  had  not 
the  power  of  pronouncing.  Lost  in  agony,  he  remained,  like  a 
statue,  on  the  spot  where  she  had  left  him,  till  roused  by  the 
friendly  voice  of  Mrs.  Marlowe,  who,  alarmed  at  his  long 


134 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


absence,  came  to  seek  him.  Soothed  by  her  kind  solicitude, 
he  directly  returned  with  her  to  the  house,  where  his  indigna- 
tion against  the  perfidious  Belgrave  again  broke  forth.  He 
execrated  him,  not  only  as  the  destroyer  of  his  peace,  but  a 
peace  infinitely  more  precious  than  his  own — that  of  the  charm- 
ing Adela. 

Mrs.  Marlowe  essayed  every  art  of  consolation,  and,  by 
sympathy  and  mildness,  at  last  subdued  the  violence  of  his 
feelings  ; she  acknowledged  the  loss  he  sustained  in  being 
deprived  of  Adela ; but,  since  irrevocable,  both  virtue  and 
reason  required  him  to  struggle  against  his  grief,  and  conceal 
it.  By  their  sacred®dictates,  she  entreated  him  to  avoid  seeing 
Adela.  He  felt  she  was  right  in  the  entreaty,  and  solemnly 
promised  to  comply  with  it ; her  friendship  was  balm  to  his 
wounded  heart,  and  her  society  the  only  pleasure  he  was 
capable  of  enjoying.  Whenever  he  could  absent  himself  from 
quarters  he  retired  to  her,  and  frequently  spent  three  or  four 
days  at  a time  in  her  cottage.  By  discontinuing  his  visits  in 
the  gay  neighborhood  of  Woodlawn,  he  avoided  all  opportuni- 
ties of  seeing  Adela,  yet  often,  on  a clear  frosty  night,  has  he 
stole  from  the  fireside  of  Mrs.  Marlowe  to  the  beloved  and 
beautiful  haunts  about  the  lake,  where  he  and  Adela  passed  so 
many  happy  hours  together.  Here  he  indulged  in  all  the 
luxury  of  woe  ; and  such  are  the  pleasures  of  virtuous  melan- 
choly, that  Oscar  would  not  have  resigned  them  for  any  of  the 
commonplace  enjoyments  of  life. 

Often  did  he  wander  to  the  grove  from  whence  he  had  a 
view  of  Adela’s  chamber,  and  if  a lucky  chance  gave  him  a 
glimpse  of  her,  as  she  passed  through  it,  a sudden  ecstasy  would 
pervade  his  bosom ; he  would  pray  for  her  felicity,  and  return 
to  Mrs.  Marlowe,  as  if  his  heart  was  lightened  of  an  oppressive 
weight.  That  tender  friend  flattered  herself,  from  youth  and 
the  natural  gayety  of  his  disposition,  his  attachment,  no  longer 
fed  by  hope,  would  gradually  decline  j but  she  was  mistaken — 
the  bloom  of  his  youth  was  faded,  and  his  gayety  converted 
into  deep  despondency.  Had  he  never  been  undeceived  with 
regard  to  the  general  and  Adela,  pride,  no  doubt,  would  quick  V 
have  lessened  the  poignancy  of  his  feelings  ; but  when  he  re- 
flected on  the  generous  intentions  oi  the  one,  on  the  sincere 
affection  of  the  other,  and  the  supreme  happiness  he  might 
have  enjoyed,  he  lost  all  fortitude.  Thus,  by  perpetually  brood- 
ing over  the  blessings  once  within  his  reach,  losing  all  relish 
for  those  which  were  yet  attainable,  his  sorrow,  instead  of  being 
ameliorated,  was  increased  by  time.  The  horror  and  indigna* 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBE\\ 


135 

tion  with  which  he  beheld  Belgrave,  after  the  first  knowledge  of 
his  baseness,  could  scarcely  be  restrained.  Though  painful,  he 
was  pleased  the  effort  had  proved  a successful  one,  as,  exclusive 
of  his  sacred  promise  to  Mrs.  Marlowe,  delicacy  on  Adela’s 
account  induced  him  to  bear  his  wrongs  in  silence.  He  could 
not,  however,  be  so  great  a hypocrite  as  to  profess  any  longer 
esteem  or  respect  for  the  colonel,  and  when  they  met,  it  was 
with  cold  politeness  on  both  sides. 

The  unfortunate  Adela  pined  in  secret.  Her  interview  with 
Oscar  had  destroyed  the  small  remainder  of  her  peace.  His 
pale  and  emaciated  figure  haunted  her  imagination;  in  vain, 
by  dwelling  on  his  unkind  letter,  did  she  endeavor  to  lessen  her 
tenderness.  She  felt  the  emotion  of  pity  stronger  than  that  of 
resentment,  and  that  the  friendship  of  Oscar  would  have  been 
sweeter  to  her  soul  than  the  love  or  attention  of  any  other  ob- 
ject. By  obeying  the  impulse  of  passion,  she  feared  she  had 
doomed  herself  to  wretchedness.  Belgrave  was  a man  whom, 
upon  mature  deliberation,  she  never  could  have  chosen.  The 
softness  of  his  manners  gradually  vanished  when  the  purpose 
for  which  they  had  been  assumed  was,  completed.  Unfeeling 
and  depraved,  the  virtues  of  Adela  could  excite  no  esteem  in 
his  bosom,  and  the  love  (if  it  can  merit  that  appellation)  which 
he  felt  for  her,  quickly  subsided  after  their  marriage;  but  as  tlie 
general  retained  the  greatest  part  of  his  fortune  in  his  own 
power,  he  continued  tolerably  guarded  in  his  conduct.  A slave, 
however,  to  the  most  violent  passions,  he  was  often  unable  to 
control  them ; and,  forgetful  of  all  prudential  motives,  delighted 
at  those  times  in  mortifying  Adela  by  sly  sarcasm  on  her  at- 
tachment for  Oscar.  Though  deeply  wounded,  she  never  com- 
plained; she  had  partly  forged  her  chains,  and  resolved  to  bear 
them  without  repining.  Tranquil  in  appearance,  the  poor 
general,  who  was  not  penetrating,  thought  his  darling  perfectly 
happy.  Such,  however,  was  not  the  opinion  of  those  who  vis- 
ited at  Woodlawn.  The  rose  of  health  no  longer  spread  its 
beautiful  tints  on  the  cheek  of  Adela,  nor  were  her  eyes  eradi- 
ated by  vivacity. 

The  colonel  never  went  to  Enniskillen  except  about  military 
business,  but  he  made  frequent  excursions  to  the  metrop- 
olis and  other  parts  of  the  kingdom  in  pursuit  of  pleasure. 
Adela  felt  relieved  by  his  absence ; and  the  general,  satisfied  at 
his  not  attempting  to  take  her  along  with  him,  never  murmured 
at  it.  The  period  now  arrived  for  the  departure  of  the 
regiment.  Adela  had  not  seen  Oscar  since  the  interview  at 
Mrs.  Marlowe's.  She  declined  going  to  the  reviews  which  pre- 


THE  CHILDREN  Oy  THE  ABBEY, 


136 

ceded  the  change  of  garrison,  and  sincerely  hoped  no  chance 
would  again  throw  him  in  her  way.  Oscar  sickened  at  the  idea 
of  quitting  the  country  without  seeing  her.  He  knew  she  was 
not  to  accompany  the  colonel.  The  officers  were  going  to  pay 
a farewell  visit  to  Woodlawn,  and  he  could  not  resist  being  of 
the  party.  They  were  shown  into  the  drawing-room,  where 
Adela  and  the  general  sat.  She  was  startled  at  the  appear- 
ance of  Oscar,  but  though  a blush  tinged  her  pale  face,  she 
soon  recovered  her  composure,  and  entered  into  conversation. 
The  general  pressed  them  to  stay  to  dinner,  but  they  had 
many  visits  to  pay  and  begged  to  be  excused.  “ My  dear  Fitz- 
alan,”  said  the  general,  who  had  long  dropped  his  displeasure, 

I wish  you  happiness  and  success,  and  hope  I shall  soon  hear 
of  your  being  at  the  head  of  a company;  remember,  I say  soon 
— for  I am  an  old  veteran,  and  should  be  sorry  to  drop  into 
the  trench  till  I had  heard  of  the  good  fortune  of  my  friends. 
Your  father  was  a brave  fellow,  and,  in  the  speedy  advance- 
ment of  his  son,  should  receive  a reward  for  his  past  services.'* 
Oscar  pressed  the  general’s  hand  to  his  breast.  He  cast  his 
tearful  eyes  on  Adela;  she  sighed,  and  beht  hers  to  the  ground. 
^^Be  assured,  sir,”  he  cried,  ^Tio  gratitude  can  be  more  fervent 
than  that  your  goodness  has  inspired  me  with ; no  wishes  can 
be  more  sincere  than  mine  for  the  happiness  of  the  inhabitants 
of  Woodlawn.”  Ineffectual  wishes,”  softly  exclaimed  Adela; 
‘‘happiness,  from  one  of  its  inhabitants  at  least,  has,  I fear,  fled 
forever.” 

The  general’s  wishes  for  the  success  of  Oscar  may  be  con- 
sidered as  mere  words  of  course,  since  not  enforced  by  more 
substantial  proofs  of  regard ; but,  in  reality,  soon  after  his " 
daughter’s  marriage,  in  his  usual  blunt  manner,  he  had  men- 
tioned to  the  colonel  his  giving  a thousand  or  two  to  help  the 
promotion  of  Oscar.  Belgrave,  who  could  not  bear  that  the 
man  whom  he  had  injured  should  have  a chance  of  obtaining 
equal  rank  with  himself,  opposed  this  truly  generous  design, 
by  saying,  “ Oscar  was  taken  under  the  patronage  of  Lord 
Cherbury,  and  that  the  general’s  bounty  might  therefore,  at 
some  future  period,  be  better  applied  in  serving  a person  with- 
out his  interest.”  To  this  the  general  assented,  declaring  that 
he  never  yet  met  with  a brave  soldier  or  his  offspring  in  dis- 
tress without  feeling  and  answering  the  claim  they  had  upon 
his  heart. 

Oscar  obtained  a ready  promise  from  Mrs.  Marlowe  of  cor- 
responding with  him.  He  blushed  and  faltered  as  he  besought 
her  sometimes  to  acquaint  him  with  the  health  of  their  friends 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


137 


at  Woodlavvn.  Change  of  scene  produced  no  alteration  in  him. 
Still  pining  with  regret,  and  languid  from  ill-health,  his  father 
and  sister  found  him.  The  comforts  of  sympathy  could  not 
be  his,  as  the  anguish  which  preyed  on  his  heart  he  considered 
of  too  sacred  a nature  to  divulge.  He  hoarded  up  his  grief, 
like  a tniser  hoarding  up  his  treasure,  fearful  that  the  eye  of 
suspicion  should  glance  at  it,  as  he  pressed  his  lovely  sister  to 
his  heart.  Had  he  imagined  she  was  the  object  of  Colonel 
Belgrave’s  licentious  passion,  the  bounds  he  had  hitherto  pre- 
scribed to  his  resentment  would  in  a moment  have  been  over- 
turned, and  he  would,  had  it  been  necessary,  have  pursued  the 
monster  round  the  world,  to  avenge  the  injury  he  had  meditated, 
as  well  as  the  one  he  had  committed. 

We  shall  now  bid  adieu  to  Oscar  for  the  present,  and,  draw- 
ing on  our  boots  of  seven  leagues,  step  after  Fitzalan  and 
Amanda. 


CHAPTER  ‘XV. 

“ Confessed  from  yonder  slow  extinguished  clouds. 

All  ether  softening,  sober  evening  takes 
Her  wonted  station  in  the  middle  air  ; 

A thousand  shadows  at  her  back.” — Thomson. 

Castle  Carberry,  to  which  our  travellers  were  going,  was 
a large  gothic  pile,  erected  in  the  rude  and  distant  period  when 
strength  more  than  elegance  was  deemed  necessary  in  a build- 
ing. The  depredations  of  war,  as  well  as  time,  were  discernible 
on  its  exterior ; some  of  its  lofty  battlements  were  broken,  and 
others  mouldering  to  decay,  while  about  its  ancient  towers 

“ The  rank  grass  waved  its  head, 

And  the  moss  whistled  to  the  wind.” 

It  stood  upon  a rocky  eminence  overhanging  the  sea,  and 
command  ng  a delightful  prospect  of  the  opposite  coast  of 
Scotland  ; about  it  were  yet  to  be  traced  irregular  fortifications, 
a moat,  and  remains  of  a drawbridge,  with  a well,  long  since 
dry,  v/hich  had  been  dug  in  the  rock  to  supply  the  inhabitants 
in  time  of  siege  with  water.  On  one  side  rose  a stupendous 
hill,  covered  to  tlie  very  summit  with  trees,  and  scattered  over 
with  relics  of  druidical  antiquity ; before  it  stretched  an  exten- 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


£38 

sive  and  gently  swelling  lawn,  sheltered  on  each  side  with 
groves  of  intermingled  shade,  and  refreshed  by  a clear  and 
meandering  rivulet,  that  took  its  rise  from  the  adjoining  hill, 
and  murmured  over  a bed  of  pebbles. 

After  a pleasant  journey,  on  the  evening  of  the  fourth  day, 
our  travellers  arrived  at  their  destined  habitation.  An  old  man 
and  woman,  who  had  the  care  of  it,  were  apprised  of  their 
coming,  and  on  the  first  approach  of  the  carriage,  opened  the 
massy  door,  and  waited  to  receive  them  ; they  reached  it  when 
the  sober  gray  of  twilight  had  clad  every  object.  Amanda 
viewed  the  dark  and  stupendous  edifice,  whose  gloom  was 
now  heightened  by  the  shadows  of  evening,  with  venerable 
awe.  The  solitude,  the  silence  which  reigned  around,  the 
melancholy  murmur  of  the  waves  as  they  dashed  against  the 
foot  of  the  rocks,  all  heightened  the  sadness  of  her  m.ind  ; yet  it 
was  not  quite  an  unpleasing  sadness,  for  with  it  was  now  mingled 
a deg;ree  of  that  enthusiasm  which  plaintive  and  romantic  spirits 
are  so  peculiarly  subject  to  feel  in  viewing  the  venerable  gran- 
deur of  an  ancient  fabric  renowned  in  history.  As  she  entered 
a spacious  hall,  curiously  wainscoted  with  oak,  ornamented 
with  coats  of  arms,  spears,  lances,  and  old  armor,  she  could  ■ 
not  avoid  casting  a retrospective  eye  to  former  times,-  when, 
perhaps,  in  this  very  hall,  bards  sung  the  exploits  •of'  those  * 
heroes,  whose  useless  arms  now  hung  upon  the  walls.  She 
wished,  in  the  romance  of  the  moment,  some  gray  bard  near 
her,  to  tell  the  deeds  of  other  times — of  kings  renowned  in  our 
land — of  chiefs  we  behold  no  more.  In  the  niches  in  the  hall 
were  figures  of  chieftains,  large  as  life,  and  rudely  carved  in 
oak.  Their  frowning  countenances  struck  a sudden  panic 
upon  the  heart  of  Ellen.  Cot  pless  their  souls,”  she  said, 

“ what  the  tefil  did  they  do  ther^,  except  to  frighten  the  peo- 
ple from  going  into  the  house.” 

They  were  shown  into  a large  parlor,  furnished  in  an  old- 
fashioned  manner,  and  found  a comfortable  supper  prepared 
for  them.  Oppressed  with  fatigue,  soon  after  they  had  par- 
taken of  it,  they  retired  to  rest.  The  next  morning,  immedi- 
ately after  breakfast,  Amanda,  attended  by  the  old  w^oman  and 
Ellen,  ranged  over  the  castle.  Its  interior  was  quite  as  gothic 
as  its  exterior  ; the  stairs  were  winding,  the  galleries  intricate, 
the  apartments  numerous,  and  mostly  hung  with  old  tapestry, 
representing  Irish  battles,  in  which  the  chiefs  of  Castle  Car- 
berry  were  particularly  distinguished.  Their  portraits,  with 
those  of  their  ladies,  occupied  a long  gallery,  whose  arched 
windows  cast  a dim  religious  light  upon  them.  This  was  termi- 


m 


^ .A  ■ riTjS  CHILD kEisr  of  the  abbey. 

nated  by  a small  apartment  in  the  centre  of  one  of  the  towers 
that  flanked  the  building.  The  room  was  an  octagon,  and  thus 
commanded  a sea  and  land  prospect,  uniting  at  once  the  sub- 
lime and  beautiful  in  it.  The  furniture  was  not  only  modern 
but  elegant,  and  excited  the  particular  attention  and  inquiries 
of  Amanda.  The  old  woman  informed  her  this  had  been  the 
dressing-room  of  the  late  Countess  of  Cherbury,  both  before 
and  after  her  marriage  : one  of  the  sweetest,  kindest  ladies,’’ 
continued  she,  “ I ever  knew ; the  castle  has  been  quite 
deserted  since  she  died — alack-a-day  ! I thought  my  poor  heart 
would  have  broke  when  I heard  of  her  death.  Ah!  I. remem- 
ber the  night  I heard  the  Banshee  crying  so  pitifully.”  “ And 
pray  what  is  that  ? ” interrupted  Amanda.  Why,  a little  wo- 
man, no  higher  than  a yard,  who  wears  a blue  petticoat,  a red 
cloak,  and  a handkerchief  round  her  head  ; and  when  the  head 
of  any  family,  especially  a great  family,  is  to  die,  she  is  always 
heard,  by  some  of  the  old  followers,  bemoaning  herself.”  Lort 
save  us  1 ” cried  Ellen,  I hope  his  lortship,  the  earl,  won’t 
take  it  into  his  head  to  die  while  we  are  here,  for  I’d  as  lief 
see  one  of  the  fairies  of  Penmaenmawr,  as  such  a little  olcj 
witch.”  ‘‘  Well,  proceed,”  said  Amanda.  “So,  as  I was  say- 
ing, .1  heard  her  crying  dismally  one  night  in  a corner  of  the 
house.  So,  says  I to  my  husband,  Johnaten,  says  I,  I am 
sure  we  shall  hear  something  about  my  good  lord  or  lady. 
And  sure  enough  w^e  did  the  next  day,  and  ever  since  we  have 
seen  none  of  the  family.”  “ Did  you  ever  see  the  young  lord  ? ” 
asked  Amanda,  with  mvoluntary  precipitation.  “ See  him  I 
aye,  that  I did,  when  he  was  about  eight  years  old  ; there  is 
his  picture  (pointing  to  one  which  hung  over  the  chimney)  ; 
my  lad^^  had  it  done  by  a fine  English  painter,  and  brought  it 
over  with  her.  It  is  the  moral  of  wdiat  he  then  was.”  The 
eager  eyes  of  Amanda  w^ere  instantly  turned  to  it,  and  she 
traced,  or  at  least  imagined  she  did  so,  a resemblance  still 
between  it  and  him.  The  painter  seemed  as  if  he  had  had  the 
description  of  Pity  in  his  mind  when  he  drew  the  picture  ; for 
Lord  Mortimer  was  portrayed,  as  she  is  represented  in  the 
beautiful  allegory,  sheltering  a trembling  dove  in  his  bosom 
from  a ferocious  hawk.  Oh  ! Mortimer  ! thought  Amanda, 
thy  feeling  nature  is  here  ably  delineated  I The  distressed,  or 
the  helpless,  to  the  utmost  of  your  power,  you  w'ould  save  from 
the  gripe  of  cruelty  and  oppression.  Her  father  had  desired 
hex'"  to  choose  pleasant  apartments  for  her  own  immediate 
use,  and  she  accordingly  fixed  on  this  and  the  room  adjoining 
it,  which  had  been  Lady  Cherbury’s  chamber.  Her  things 


140 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


were  brought  hither,  and  her  books,  works,  and  implements 
for  drawing,  deposited  in  rich  inlaid  cabinets.  PJeased  with 
the  arrangements  she  had  made,  she  brought  her  father,  as 
soon  as  he  was  at  leisure,  to  view  them.  He  was  happy  to 
find  her  spirits  somewhat  cheerful  and  composed,  and  declared 
in  future  he  would  call  this  Amanda’s  Tower.  Accompanied 
by  him,  she  ascended  to  the  battlements  of  the  castle,  and 
was  delighted  with  the  extensive  and  variegated  prospect  she 
beheld  from  them.  A spacious  edifice,  at  some  distance,  em- 
bowered in  a grove  of  venerable  oaks,  attracted  her  admiration. 
Her  father  told  her  that  was  Ulster  Lodge,  a seat  belonging 
to  the  Marquis  of  Roslin,  who  was  an  Irish  as  well  as  a Scotch 
Peer,  and  had  very  extensive  possessions  in  Ireland.  Fitzalan 
added,  he  had  been  inquiring  of  the  old  man  about  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  learned  from  him  that,  at  the  expiration  of  every 
three  or  four  years,  the  JMarquis  usually  came  over  to  Ulster 
Lodge,  but  had  never  yet  been  accompanied  by  the  Marchion- 
ess, or  Lady  Euphrasia  Sutherland,  who  was  his  only  child. 

The  domestic  economy  of  Castle  Carberrywas  soon  settled. 
A young  man  and  woman  were  hired,  as  Johnaten  and  his  wife, 
Kate,  were  considered  little  more  than  supernumeraries.  Ellen 
was  appointed  to  attend  Amanda,  and  do  whatever  plain  work 
was  required.  Fitzalan  felt  a pleasing  serenity  diffused  over 
his  mind,  from  the  idea  of  being  in  some  degree  independent, 
and  in  the  way  of  making  some  provision  for  his  children. 
The  first  shock  of  a separation  from  Lord  Mortimer  being  over, 
the  cheerfulness  of  Amanda  gradually  returned,  the  visions  of 
hope  again  revived  in  her  mind,  and  she  indulged  a secret  pleas- 
ure at  living  in  the  house  he  had  once  occupied.  She  con- 
sidered her  father  as  particularly  connected  with  his  family, 
and  doubted  not,  from  this  circumstance,  she  should  some- 
times hear  of  him.  She  judged  of  his  constancy  by  her  own, 
and  believed  he  would  not  readily  forget  her.  She  acknowl- 
edged her  father’s  motives  for  separating  them  were  equally 
just  and  delicate ; but  firmly  believed,  if  Lord  Mortimer  (as 
she  flattered  herself  he  would)  confessed  a partiality  in  her 
favor  to  his  father,  that,  influenced  by  tenderness  for  his  son, 
friendship  for  her  father,  and  the  knowledge  of  her  descent,  he 
would  immediately  give  up  every  idea  of  another  connectic” 
and  sanction  theirs  with  his  approbation.  No  obstacle  ap- 
peared to  such  an  union  but  want  of  fortune,  and  that  want 
she  could  never  suppose  would  be  considered  as  one  by  the 
liberal-minded  Lord  Cherbury,  who  had  himself  an  income 
sufficient  to  gratify  even  luxurious  wishes.  Her  time  was 


tilE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


141 

agreeably  diversified  by  the  sources  of  amusements  she  drew 
from  herself.  Her  father,  whose  supreme  felicity  consisted  in 
contributing  to  her  pleasure,  purchased  a delightful  harp  for 
her  in  Dublin,  which  arrived  a few  days  after  them,  at  Castle 
Carberry,  and  with  its  dulcet  lays  she^often  charmed,  not  only 
his  spirit,  but  her  own,  from  every  mortal  care.  She  loved  to 
rise  early,  and  catch  the  first  beams  of  the  sun,  as  she  wan- 
dered over  the  dewy  lawn,  where  the  lowing  cattle  cropped  the 
flowery  herbage,  and  the  milkmaid  sung  her  plaintive  ditty. 

With  her  father  she  took  long  walks  about  the  adjacent 
country.  He  had  visited  every  scene  before,  and  now  pointed 
out  whatever  was  worthy  her  attention  : the  spots  where  the 
heroes  of  former  ages  had  fallen,  where  the  mighty  stones  of 
their  fame  were  raised,  that  the  children  of  the  North  might 
hereafter  know  the  places  where  their  fathers  fought ; that  the 
hunter,  as  he  leaned  upon  a mossy  tomb,  might  say,  here 
fought  the  heroes  of  pther  years,  and  their  fame  shall  last 
forever ! 

Amanda,  too,  often  rambled  by  herself,  particularly  among 
the  rocks,  where  were  several  natural  grottos,  strewed  with 
shells  and  seaweeds.  Here,  of  a mild  day,  she  loved  to  read, 
and  listen  to  the  low  murmurs  of  the  tide.  The  opposite 
Scottish  hills,  among  which  her  mother  first  drew  breath,  often 
attracted  and  fixed  her  attention,  frequently  drawing  tears 
from  her  eyes,  by  awaking  in  her  mind  the  recollection  of  that 
mother’s  sufferings. 

On  a morning,  when  she  sat  at  work  in  her  apartment, 
Ellen,  who  was  considered  more  as  a friend  than  a servant, 
sometimes  sat  with  her ; the  conversation  not  unfrequently 
turned  on  nurse  Edwin’s  cottage,  from  which  Ellen,  with  an 
arch  simplicity,  would  advert  to  Tudot  Hall,  thence  naturally 
to  Lord  Mortimer,  and  conclude  with  poor  Chip,  excHltning 
“What  a pity  true  love  should  ever  W-  I 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEV-. 


142 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

••Some  take  him  for  a tool 
That  knaves  do  work  with,  called  a fool  ; 

Fools  are  known  by  looking  wise, 

As  men  find  woodcocks  by  their  eyes.” — Hudibras. 

The  solitude  of  Castle  Carberry  was  interrupted  in  less 
than  a fortnight  by  visits  and  invitations  from  the  neighboring 
families.  The  first  they  accepted  was  to  dinner  at  Mr.  Kil- 
corban’s.  He  was  a man  pf  large  forcune,  which,  in  the  opinion 
of  many,  compensated  for  the  want  of  polished  manners,  and  a 
cultivated  mind  ; but  others,  of  a more  liberal  way  of  thinking, 
could  not  possibly  excuse  those  deficiencies,  which  were  more 
apparent  from  his  pretending  to  every  excellence ; and  more 
intolerable  from  his  deeming  himself  authorized,  by  his  wealth 
and  consequence,  to  say  and  do  almost  whatever  he  pleased. 
His  lady  was,  like  himself,  a compound  of  ignorance,  pride, 
and  vanity.  Their  offspring  was  numerous,  and  the  three  who 
were  sufficiently  old  to  make  their  appearance,  were  considered, 
by  their  parents  and  themselves,  as  the  very  models  of  elegance 
and  perfection.  The  young  heir  had  been  sent  to  the  Univer- 
sity ; but,  permitted  to  be  his  own  master,  he  had  profited  little 
by  his  residence  there.  Enough,  however,  perhaps  he  thought 
for  a man  of  fortune,  who  wanted  not  professional  knowledge. 
His  face  was  coarse,  his  person  inelegant,  and  his  taste  in 
adorning  himself  preposterously  ridiculous.  Fashion,  Hoyle, 
and  the  looking-glass,  were  his  chief  studies,  and,  by  his  family 
and  self,  he  was  considered  quite  the  thing. 

The  young  ladies  were  supposed  to  be  very  accomplished, 
because  they  had  instructors  in  almost  every  branch  of  edu^ 
cation  ; but,  in  reality,  they  understood  little  more  than  the 
names  ot  what  they  were  attempted  to  be  taught.  Nature  had 
not  been  lavish  of  her  gifts.  Of  this,  however,  they  were 
conscious,  and  patched,  powdered,  and  painted  in  the  very 
extremity  of  the  mode.  Their  mornings  were  generally  spent 
in  rolling  about  in  a coach  and  six  with  their  mamma,  collect- 
ing news  and  paying  visits  ; their  evenings  were  constantly  de- 
voted to  company,  without  which  they  declared  they  could  not 
exist.  They  sometimes  affected  languor  and  sentiment,  talked 
of  friendship,  and  professed  for  numbers,  the  most  sincere  ; yet, 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


147 


Greystock  ; but  her  ladyship  was  passionately  fond  of  cards, 
and  at  all  times  would  have  preferred  the  pleasures  of  a card- 
table  to  the  eloquence  of  a Cicero.  Kilcorban,  on  finding  her 
disengaged,  tormented  her  with  many  absurd  compliments.  A 
challenge  to  a brag-table  at  length  relieved  her  from  his  non- 
sense, and  she  loitered  about  the  card-tables  till  they  broke  up 
for  supper. 

Amanda  always  expressed  to  her  father  her  sentiments  of 
any  company  she  had  been  in ; and  those  she  now  delivered, 
on  quitting  the  party,  perfectly  coincided  with  his.  He  laughed 
at  the  account  which  the  Kilcorbans  had  given  of  Lady  Grey- 
stock,  to  whom  he  knew  they  paid  the  most  extravagant  flattery, 
in  hopes  of  obtaining  some  of  her  large  fortune. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

**  Remote  from  man,  with  God  they  passed  their  days, 

Prayer  all  their  business,  all  their  pleasure  praise.” — Parnel. 

The  following  evening  they  were  engaged  to  spend  at  a 
farmer’s.  The  invitation  was  given  with  such  humility,  yet 
pressed  with  such  warmth,  that  they  could  not  avoid  accepting 
it,  and  accordingly,  soon  after  dinner,  walked  to  the  house, 
which  was  about  a mile  from ' Castle  Carberry.  It  was  a low 
thatched  building  — every  appendage  to  it  bespoke  neatness 
and  comfort.  It  was  situated  in  a beautiful  meadow,  enclosed 
from  the  road  by  a hawthorn  hedge,  and  on  the  opposite  side 
lay  an  extensive  common,  on  which  stood  the  stupendous  and 
venerable  ruins  of  an  abbey,  called  St.  Catherine’s.  They 
appeared  a melancholy  monument  of  the  power  of  time  ovet 
strength  and  grandeur  ; and  while  they  attracted  the  observation 
of  the  curious,  excited  a sigh  in  the  bosom  of  sensibility. 

The  farmer’s  family  consisted  of  three  daughters  and  two 
sons,  who  were  now  dressed  in  their  best  array.  They  had 
assembled  a number  of  their  neighbors,  among  whom  was  a 
little  fat  priest,  called  Father  O’Gallaghan — considered  the  life 
of  every  party — and  a blind  piper.  The  room  was  small,  and 
crowded  with  furniture  as  well  as  company.  It  was  only  divided 
from  the  kitchen  by  a short  passage,  and  the  steam  of  hot  cakes, 
and  the  smoke  of  a turf  fire,  which  issued  thence,  soon  rendered 


148  the  children  of  the  abbey.  ' 

it  distressingly  warm.  Amanda  got  as  near  the  window  as 
possible,  but  still  could  not  procure  sufficient  air  ; and  as  every- 
thing for  tea  was  not  quite  ready,  asked  one  of  the  Miss  O’Flan- 
naghans  if  she  would  accompany  her  to  St.  Catherine’s.  She 
answered  in  the  affirmative.  The  priest,  who  had  been  smirking 
at  her  ever  since  her  entrance,  now  shook  his  fat  sides,  and 
said  he  wished  he  could  get  her  initiated  there  ; for  it  would 
do  my  soul  good,”  cried  he,  ‘‘to  confess  such  a pretty  little 
creature  as  you  are.  Though  faith,  I believe  I should  find  you 
like  Paddy  McDenough,  who  used  to  come  to  confession  every 
Easter,  though  the  devil  a thing  the  poor  man  had  to  confess 
about  at  all  at  all.  So,  says  I to  him,  Paddy,  my  jewel,  says  I, 
I believe  I must  make  a saint  of  you,  and  lay  you  on  the  altar.” 
‘•Ohl  honey,  father!”  cried  he,  “not  yet  awhile,  till  I get  a 
new  suit  of  clothes  on,  which  I shall  by  next  Michaelmas.” 
Amanda  left  them  all  laughing  at  this  story,  and  her  fathetr 
engaged  in  conversation  with  some  farmers,  who  were  desiring 
his  interest  with  Lord  Cherbury,  for  new  leases  on  moderate 
terms. 

Amanda  had  about  a quarter  of  a mile  to  walk  across  the 
common  ; the  ground  was  marshy  and  uneven,  and  numerous 
stumps  of  trees  denoted  its  having  once  been  a noble  forest,  of 
which  no  memorial  but  these  stumps,  and  a few  tall  trees  imme- 
diatel}^  near  the  abbey,  remained,  that  stretched  their  venerable 
arms  around  it,  as  if  to  shade  that  ruin  whose  progress  they  had 
witnessed,  and  which  Amanda  found  well  worthy  of  inspection. 
She  was  equally  astonished  at  its  elegance  and  extent ; with 
sacred  awe  traversing  the  spacious  cloisters,  the  former  walks 
of  holy  meditation,  she  pursued  her  way  through  winding  pas- 
sages, where  vestiges  of  cells  were  yet  discernible,  over  whose 
mouldering  arches  the  grass  waved  in  rank  luxuriance,  and  the 
creeping  ivy  spread  its  gloomy  foliage,  and  viewed  with  reverence 
the  graves  of  those  who  had  once  inhabited  them  ; they  sur- 
rounded that  of  the  founder’s,  which  was  distinguished  by  a 
cross,  and  Miss  O’Flannaghan  related  the  traditions  that  were 
current  concerning  him.  He  was  a holy  monk  who  had  the 
care  of  a pious  lady’s  conscience  ; she,  on  her  death-bed,  had  a 
remarkable  dream,  or  vision,  in  which  she  thought  an  angel 
appeared,  and  charged  her  to  bequeath  her  wealth  to  her  con- 
fessor, who  would,  no  doubt,  make  a much  better  use  of  it  than 
those  she  designed  it  for.  She  obeyed  the  sacred  injunction, 
and  the  good  man  immediately  laid  the  foundation  of  this  abbey, 
which  he  called  after  his  benefactress,  and  to  which  he,  and  the 
community  he  belonged  to,  removed.  The  chapel  was  roofless, 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


149 


but  still  retained  many  relics  of  superstitious  piety,  which  had 
escaped,  in  a tolerable  degree,  both  time  and  weather.  Saints 
and  martyrs  were  curiously  cut  over  the  places  where  the  altars 
and  cisterns  for  holy  water  had  once  stood,  to  which  Amanda 
passed  through  a long  succession  of  elegant  arches,  among 
which  were  a number  of  tombstones,  with  curious  devices,  and 
unintelligible  inscriptions.  Half  hid  by  grass  and  weeds,  on  a 
flag,  which  she  perceived  must  have  been  lately  placed  there, 
she  saw  some  faded  flowers  strewn,  and  looking  at  her  com- 
panion, saw  a tear  dropping  from  her  on  them.  She  gently 
asked  the  cause  of  it,  and  heard  a favorite  brother  was  interred 
there.  The  girl  moved  from  the  spot,  but  Amanda,  detained 
by  an  irrepressible  emotion,  stayed  a minute  longer  to  contem 
plate  the  awful  scene.  All  was  silent,  sad,  and  solitary ; the 
grass-grown  aisles  looked  long  untrodden  by  human  foot,  the 
green  and  mouldering  walls  appeared  ready  to  crumble  into 
atoms,  and  the  wind,  which  howled  through  their  crevices, 
sounded  to  the  ear  of  fancy  as  sighs  of  sorrow  for  the  desolation 
of  the  place.  Full  of  moralizing  melancholy,  the  young,  the 
lovely  Amanda,  hung  over  the  grave  of  her  companion’s  youth- 
ful brother ; and  taking  up  the  withered  flower,  wet  with  the 
tear  of  sisterly  affection,  dropped  another  on  it,  and  cried. 
Oh  ! how  fit  an  emblem  is  this  of  life  ! how  illustrative  of 
these  words — 

‘ Man  comes  forth  as  a flower  in  the  field,  and  is  soon  cut  down.'’  ” 

Miss  O’Flannaghan  now  led  her  through  some  more  wind- 
ings, when,  suddenly  emerging  from  them,  she  found  herself,  to 
her  great  surprise,  in  a large  garden,  entirely  encompassed  by 
the  ruins,  and  in  the  centre  of  it  stood  a long  low  building, 
which  her  companion  informed  her  was  a convent ; a folding 
door  at  the  side  opened  into  the  chapel,  which  they  entered, 
and  found  a nun  praying. 

Amanda  drew  back,  fearful  of  disturbing  her ; but  Miss 
O’Flannaghan  accosted  her  without  ceremony,  and  the  nun  re- 
turned the  salutation  with  the  most  cordial  good-humor.  She 
was  fifty,  as  Amanda  afterwards  heard,  for  she  never  could, 
from  her  appearance,  have  conceived  her  to  be  so  much.  Her 
skin  was  fair,  and  perfectly  free  from  wrinkle  ; the  bloom  and 
down  upon  her  cheeks  as  bright  and  as  soft  as  that  upon  a 
peach  ; though  her  accent  at  one  proclaimed  her  country,  it  was 
not  unharmonious  ; and  the  cheerful  obligingness  of  her  man- 
ner amply  compensated  the  want  of  elegance.  She  wore  the 
religious  habit  of  the  house,  which  was  a loose  flannel  dress, 


150 


THE  CHILDREH  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


bouna  round  her  waist  by  a girdle,  from  which  hung  her  b^ads 
and  a cross  ; a veil  of  the  same  stuff  descended  to  the  grouna, 
and  a mob  cap,  and  forehead  cloth,  quite  concealed  her  hair.* 
Miss  O’Flannaghan  presented  Amanda  to  her  as  a stranger,  who 
wished  to  see  everything  curious  in  the  chapel.  “ Ah  ! my 
honey,’’  cried  she,  “ I am  sorry  she  has  come  at  a time  when 
she  will  see  us  all  in  the  dismals,  for  you  know  we  are  in  mourn- 
ing for  our  prioress  (the  altar  was  hung  in  black)  : but,  my  dear 
(turning  to  Amanda),  do  you  mean  to  come  here  next  Sunday? 
for  if  you  do,  you  will  find  us  all  bright  again."'  Upon  Amanda’s 
answering  in  the  negative,  she  continued,  Faith,  and  I am 
sorry  for  that,  for  I have  taken  a great  fancy  to  you,  and  when 
I like  a person,  I always  wish  them  as  great  a chance  of  happi- 
ness as  I have  myself.”  Amanda,  smiling,  said,  she  believed 
none  could  desire  a greater,  and  the  nun  obligingly  proceeded 
to  show  her  all  the  relics  and  finery  of  the  chapel ; among  th^ 
former  was  a head  belonging  to  one  of  the  eleven  thousand 
virgin  martyrs,  and  the  latter,  a chest  full  of  rich  silks,  which 
pious  ladies  had  given  for  the  purpose  of  dressing  the  altar. 
Pulling  a drawer  from  under  it,  she  displayed  a quantity  of  arti- 
ficial flowers,  which  she  said  were  made  by  the  sisters  and  their 
scholars.  Amanda  wished  to  make  a recompense  for  the 
trouble  she  had  given,  and  finding  they  were  to  be  sold,  pur- 
chased a number,  and  having  given  some  to  Miss  O’Flannaghan, 
whom  she  observed  viewing  them  with  a wdshful  eye,  she  left 
the  rest  with  the  nun,  promising  to  call  for  them  the  next  day. 
“ Ay,  do,”  said  she,  ‘‘  and  you  may  be  sure  of  a sincere  welcome. 
You  will  see  a set  of  happy  poor  creatures,  and  none  happier 
than  myself.  I entered  the  convent  at  ten  ; I took  the  vows  at 
fifteen,  and  from  that  time  to  the  present,  which  is  a long  stretch, 
I have  passed  a contented  life,  thanks  be  to  our  blessed  lady  ! ” 
raising  her  sparkling  eyes  to  heaven.  They  ascended  a few  steps 
to  the  place  where  the  community  sat.  It  was  divided  from  the 
body  of  the  chapel  by  a slight  railing.  Here  stood  the  organ. 
The  nun  sighed  as  she  looked  at  it.  Poor  sister  Agatha,” 
cried  she,  “ we  shall  never  get  such  another  organis:.  She  was 
always  fit  indeed  for  the  heavenly  choir.  Oh  ! my  dear,”  turn- 
ing to  Amanda,  had  you  known  her,  you  would  have  loved 
her.  She  was  our  late  prioress,  and  elected  to  that  office  at 
twenty-nine,  which  is  reckoned  an  early  age  for  it,  on  account  of 
the  cleverness  it  requires.  She  had  held  it  but  two  years  when 
she  died,  and  we  never  were  so  comfortable  as  during  her  time, 

* The  Abbey  and  the  Nun,  which  the  Author  has  attempted  to  describe,  w'ere  such  as 
she  really  «av^  but  in  a di:Serent  part  of  Ireland  from  that  which  she  has  mentioned. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


1$^ 

she  managed  so  well.  The  mourning  in  the  chapel,  as  I Jiave 
already  told  you,  will  be  over  for  her  next  Sunday ; but  that 
which  is  in  our  hearts  will  not  be  so  speedily  removed.”  Miss 
OTlannaghan  now  reminded  Amanda  it  was  time  to  return,  to 
which,  with  secret  reluctance,  she  consented.  The  nun  pressed 
her  to  stay  to  tea ; but,  on  hearing  of  her  engagement,  only  re- 
minded her  of  the  promised  visit.  In  their  walk  back,  her  com- 
panion informed  Amanda  that  the  society  consisted  of  twelve 
nuns.  Their  little  fortunes,  though  sunk  in  one  common  fund, 
were  insufficient  to  supply  their  necessities,  which  compelled 
them  to  keep  a day-school,  in  which  the  neighboring  children 
were  instructed  in  reading,  writing,  plain-work,  embroidery,  and 
artificial  flowers.  She  also  added,  that  the  nuns  were  allowed 
to  go  out,  but  few  availed  themselves  of  that  liberty,  and  that, 
except  in  fasting,  they  were  strangers  to  the  austerities  prac- 
tised in  foreign  convents. 

For  such  a society  Amanda  thought  nothing  could  be  better 
adapted  than  their  present  situation.  Sheltered  by  the  ruins, 
like  the  living  entombed  among  the  dead,  their  wishes,  like  their 
views,  were  bounded  by  the  mouldering  walls,  as  no  object  ap- 
peared beyond  them  which  could  tempt  their  wandering  from 
their  usual  limits.  The  dreary  common,  which  met  their  view, 
could  not  be  more  bleak  and  inhospitable  than  the  world  in 
general  would  have  proved  to  these  children  of  poverty  and 
nature. 

Father  O’Gallaghan  met  the  ladies  at  the  door,  and,  famil- 
iarly taking  Amanda’s  hand,  said,  “ Why,  you  have  stayed  long 
enough  to  be  made  a nun  of.  Here,”  said  he,  the  cakes  are 
buttered,  the  tea  made,  and  we  are  all  waiting  for  you.  Ah  ! 
you  little  rogue,”  smirking  in  her  face,  by  the  head  of  St. 
Patrick,  those  twinklers  of  yours  were  not  given  for  the  good  of 
your  soul.  Here  you  are  come  to  play  pell-mell  among  the 
hearts  of  the  honest  Irish  lads.  Ah,  the  devil  a doubt  but  you 
will  have  mischief  enough  to  answer  for  by  and  by,  and  then  I 
suppose  you  will  be  coming  to  me  to  confess  and* absolve  you; 
but  remember,  my  little  honey,  if  you  do,  I must  be  paid  before- 
hand.” Amanda  disengaged  her  hand,  and  entered  the  parlor, 
where  the  company,  by  a display  of  pocket-handkerchiefs  on 
their  laps,  seemed  prepared  to  make  a downright  meal  of  the 
good  things  before  them.  The  Miss  O’Flannaghans,  from  the 
toils  of  the  tea-table,  at  last  grew  as  red  as  the  ribbon  with  which 
they  were  profusely  ornamented.  The  table  at  length  removed, 
the  chairs  arranged,  and  benches  placed  in  the  passage  for  the 
old  folks,  the  signal  for  a dance  was  given  b.y  thp  piper’s  playing 


riS2 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  ' 


an  Irish  jig.  The  farmer’s  eldest  son,  habited  in  his  sky-blue 
coat,  his  hair  combed  sleek  on  his  forehead,  and  his  complexion 
as  bright  as  a full-blown  poppy,  advanced  to  our  heroine,  and 
begged,  with  much  modesty,  and  many  bows,  she  would  do  him 
the  favor  to  stand  up  with  him.  She  hesitated  a little,  when 
Father  O’Galiaghan,  giving  her  a tap,  or  rather  slap,  on  the 
shoulder,  made  her  start  suddenly  from  her  seat.  He  laughed 
heartily  at  this,  declaring  he  liked  to  see  a girl  alive  and  merry. 
As  he  could  not  join  in  the  dance,  he  consoled  himself  with  being 
master  of  the  ceremonies,  and  insisted  on  Amanda’s  dancing 
and  leading  off  the  priest  in  his  boots.  She  felt  little  inclined 
to  comply ; but  she  was  one  of  those  who  can  sacrifice  their 
own  inclination  to  that  of  others.  Being  directed  in  the  figure 
by  the  priest,  she  went  down  the  dance,  but  the  floor  being  an 
earthen  one,  by  the  time  she  had  concluded  it,  she  begged  they 
would  excuse  her  sitting  the  remainder  of  the  evening,  she  felt 
so  extremely  fatigued.  She  and  Fitzalan  would  gladly  have 
declined  staying  supper,  but  this  they  found  impossible,  without 
either  greatly  mortifying,  or  absolutely  offending  their  hospitable 
entertainers. 

The  table  was  covered  with  a profusion  of  good  country  fare, 
and  none  seemed  to  enjoy  it  more  truly  than  the  priest.  In 
the  intervals  of  eating,  his  jests  flew  about  in  every  direction. 
The  scope  he  gave  to  his  vivacity  exhilarated  the  rest,  so  that, 
like  Falstaff,  he  was  not  only  witty  himself,  but  a promote^r  of 
wit  in  others.  Pray,  father,”  said  a young  man  to  him,  ‘‘  what 
do  you  give  in  return  for  all  the  good  cheer  you  get  ? ” My 
blessing,  to  be  sure,”  replied  he.  ‘‘  What  better  could  I give 
‘‘  Ay,  so  you  may  think,  but  that  is  not  the  case  with  us  all,  J 
promise  you.  It  is  so  pithy,  I must  tell  you  a story  about  that 
same  thing  called  a priest’s  blessing.  A poor  man  went  on^ 
day  to  a priest,  who  had  the  name  of  being  very  rich  and  very 
charitable  ; but  as  all  we  hear  is  not  gospel,  so  the  poor  mam 
doubted  a little  the  truth  of  the  latter  report,  and  resolved  on 
trying  him.  ^ Father,’  says  he,  ‘ I have  met  svith  great  losses. 
My  cabin  was  burned,  my  pigs  stolen,  and  my  cow  fell  into  a 
ditch  and  broke  her  neck  ; so  I am  come  to  ask  your  reverence, 
for  the  love  of  heaven,  to  lend  me  a crown.’  ‘ A crown  ! ’ re- 
peated the  angry  and  astonished  priest.  ^ O ! you  rogue,  where 
do  you  think  I could  get  money  to  lend,  except,  like  yourself,  I 
had  pilfered  and  stolen  ^ O ! that  is  neither  here  nor  there,’ 
replied  the  man.  ‘You  know  I cleared  the  score  on  my  con- 
science with  you  long  ago,  so  tell  me,  father,  if  you  will  lend  me 
half  a crown  ? ’ ‘So,  a shilling.’  ‘ Well,  a farthing,  tb.«a j 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


IS3 

anything  from  such  a good  man  as  you.*  ‘ No,’  said  the  priest, 
‘ not  a mite  ’ ‘ Mayn’t  I have  your  blessing  ? ’ then  asked  the 

man.  ‘ Oh  ! that  you  shall,  and  welcome/  replied  he,  smiling. 
‘ Why,  then,  father,’  returned  the  other,  ‘ I would  refuse  it  if  you 
forced  it  upon  me;  for,  do  you  see,  had  it  been  worth  one  farthing, 
you  would  have  refused  it  to  me.’  ” 

“ You  have  put  me  in  mind  of  a very  curious  story,”  ex- 
claimed another  young  man,  as  this  one  concluded  his.  “ A 
young  knight  went  into  a chapel  in  Spain  one  morning,  where 
he  observed  a monk  standing  in  a supplicating  attitude,  with  a 
box  in  his  hand.  He  asked  him  what  this  was  for,  and  learned, 
to  collect  money  for  praying  the  souls  of  fifty  Christians  out  of 
purgatory,  whom  the  Moors  had  murdered.  The  knight  threw 
a piece  of  money  into  the  box,  and  the  monk,  after  repeating  a 
short  prayer,  exclaimed,  ‘ There  is  one  soul 
knight  threw  in  a second,  and  the  arrer  tfie  same  cere- 

mony, cried,  ‘ There  is  another  free.’  Thus  they  both  went  on, 
one  giving,  and  the  other  praying,  till,  by  the  monk’s  account, 
all  the  souls  were  free.  ‘Are  you  sure  of  this  .^  ’ inquired  the 
knight.  ‘ Ay,’  replied  the  priest,  ‘ they  are  all  assembled  to- 
gether at  the  gate  of  heaven,  which  St.  Peter  gladly  opened  for 
them,  and  they  are  now  joyfully  seated  in  Paradise.’  ‘ From 
whence  they  cannot  be  icmoved,  I suppose,’  said  the  knight. 
‘Removed!’  repeated  the  astonished  priest.  ‘No,  the  world 
itself  might  be  easier  moved.’  ‘ Then,  if  you  please,  holy  father, 
return  me  my  ducats ; they  have  accomplished  the  purpose  for 
which  they  were  given,  and,  as  1 am  only  a poor  cavalier,  with- 
out a chance  of  being  as  happily  situated,  at  least  for  some 
years,  as  the  souls  we  have  mutually  contributed  to  release,  I 
stand  in  great  need  of  them.’  ” 

Fitzalan  was  surprised  at  the  freedom  with  which  they  treated 
the  priest ; but  he  laughed  as  merrily  as  the  rest  at  their  stories, 
for  he  knew  that,  though  they  sometimes  allowed  themselves  a 
little  latitude,  they  neither  wished  nor  attempted  to  shake  off 
his  power. 

Fitzalan  and  Amanda  withdrew  as  early  as  possible  from 
the  party,  which,  if  it  wanted  every  other  charm,  had  that  of 
novelty,  at  least  to  them.  The  next  morning  Amanda  repaired 
to  the  convent,  and  inquired  for  Sister  Mary,  the  good-natured 
nun  she  had  seen  the  preceding  evening.  She  immediately 
made  her  appearance,  and  was  delighted  at  seeing  Amanda. 
She  conducted  her  to  the  school-room,  where  the  rest  of  the 
nuns  and  the  pupils  were  assembled  ; and  Amanda  was  delighted 
with  the  content  and  regularity  which  appeared  in  the  society, 


*S4 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


as  well  as  the  obliging  eagerness  they  showed  to  gratify  hei 
curiosity.  They  led  her  through  the  house,  which  contained  a 
number  of  apartments,  every  nun  having  one  to  herself,  fur- 
nished with  a bed,  chair,  table,  and  crucifix,  and  then  to  the 
parlor,  where  their  new  prioress  sat.  She  was  a woman  far  ad- 
vanced in  life.  Had  a painter  wanted  to  personify  benevolence, 
he  might  have  chosen  her  for  a model — so  soft,  so  benignant 
was  her  countenance.  Sorrow,  as  well  as  time,  had  marked  it 
deeply ; but  the  mild  expression  of  her  eyes  announced  the 
most  perfect  resignation  to  that  sorrow.  She  received  Amanda 
with  the  truest  politeness  and  most  friendly  warmth ; and 
Amanda  felt  impressed  with  real  reverence  for  her,  whilst  she 
acknowledged  in  her  mind  there  could  not  be  a happier  situa- 
tion for  her  than  her  present.  She  thought  it  a pity  the  world 
had  been  deprived  of  a woman  who  would  have  proved  such 
an  ornament  to  it.  Sister  Mary' disappeared,  but  returned  in 
a few  minutes  with  cake  and  currant-wine,  which  she  forced 
Amanda  to  take.  The  good  sister  was  enchanted  with  her 
young  visitor,  and  having  no  idea  of  concealing  her  feelings, 
she  openly  expressed  her  admiration.  “ Dear  mother,^^  said 
she,  addressing  the  prioress,  is  she  not  a lovely  creature  ? 
What  pretty  eyes  she  has  got,  and  what  sweet  little  hands ! 
Oh,  if  our  blessed  lady  would  but  touch  her  heart,  and  make 
her  become  one  of  us,  I should  be  so  happy.’’  The  prioress 
smiled  ; she  was  not  so  great  an  enthusiast  as  Sister  Mary. 

It  would  be  a pity,”  said  she,  so  sweet  a flower  should  be 
hid  amidst  the  ruins  of  St.  Catherine’s.” 

Amanda  made  an  addition  to  the  flowers  ; she  was  thanked 
by  the  nuns,  and  entreated  to  favor  them  often  with  a visit. 
Just  as  she  reached  Castle  Carberry,  she  saw  the  Kilcorbans’ 
carriage  stop  at  it,  from  which  Lady  Greystock  and  the  young 
ladies  alighted.  They  both  spoke  at  once,  and  so  extremely  fast 
that  Amanda  scarcely  understood  what  they  said.  They  de- 
clared a thousand  impertinent  visitors  had  prevented  their  com- 
ing the  preceding  morning  and  looking  at  the  things  she  had 
obligingly  promised  to  show  them.  Amanda  recollected  no 
such  promise,  but  would  not  contradict  them,  and  permitted 
their  taking  what  patterns  they  liked.  Lady  Greystock  smiled 
sarcastically  at  her  young  kinswomen,  and  expressed  a wish  to 
see  the  castle.  Amanda  led  her  through  it.  Her  ladyship  was 
particularly  pleased  with  the  dressing-room.  Here  the  young 
ladies,  with  rude  and  eager  curiosity,  examined  everything ; 
but  her  ladyship,  who  was  full  as  curious  as  themselves,  could 
not  condemn  freedoms  she  took  herself.  Observing  a petticoat 


THE  ,CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


ISS 

in  a tambour-frame,  she  admired  the  pattern  ; and  hearing  it 
was  designed  by  Amanda,  extolled  her  fine  taste,  and  declared 
she  should  of  all  things  like  to  have  one  worked  in  the  same. 
This  hint  was  too  plain  to  pass  unnoticed.  Amanda  wished  to 
oblige,  particularly  any  one  advanced  in  life,  and  told  her  lady- 
ship she  would  work  one  for  her.  Lady  Gre3^stock  smiled  most 
graciously  at  this,  and  pressing  her  hand,  declared  she  was  a 
charming  girl.  The  Miss  Kilcorbans  winked  slyly,  and,  taking 
her  hand  in  turn,  assured  her  they  had  conceived  a most  ardent 
friendship  for  her,  and  hoped  she  would  often  favor  them  with 
her  company.  Amanda  answered  those  insincere  professions 
with  cool  civility,  and  the  visitors  departed. 


CHAPTER  XVIIL 

*‘Oh!  fields,  oh!  woods,  when,  when,  shall  I be  made 
The  happy  tenant  of  your  shade  ! ” — Cowley. 

Solitude  to  Amanda  was  a luxury,  as  it  afforded  her  oppor- 
tunities of  indulging  the  ideas  on  which  her  heart  delighted  to 
dwell ; she  yet  believed  she  should  see  Lord  Mortimer,  and 
that  Lord  Cherbury’s  sanctioning  their  attachment  would  re- 
move the  delicate  scruples  of  her  father.  From  soothing  his 
passing  hours,  beguiling  her  own  with  the  accomplishments  she 
possessed,  and  indulging  the  tender  suggestions  of  hope,  a 
pleasure  arose  she  thought  ill  exchanged  for  the  trifling  gayety 
of  the  parties  she  was  frequently  invited  to ; she  was  never  at 
a loss  for  amusement  within  Castle  Carberry,  or  about  its  do- 
main ; the  garden  became  the  object  of  her  peculiar  care  ; its 
situation  was  romantic,  and  long  neglect  had  added  to  its 
natural  wildness.  Amanda  in  many  places  discovered  vestiges 
of  taste,  and  wished  to  restore  all  to  primeval  beauty.  The 
fruit-trees  were  matted  together,  the  alleys  grass-grown,  and 
the  flowers  choked  v/ith  weeds  ; on  one  side  lay  a small  wilder- 
ness, which  surrounded  a gothic  temple,  and  on  the  other  green 
slopes  with  masses  of  naked  rock  projecting  through  them ; 
a flight  of  rugged  steps,  cut  in  the  living  rock,  led  to  a cave  on 
the  summit  of  one  of  the  highest,  a cross  rudely  carved  upon 
the  wall,  and  the  remains  of  a matted  couch,  denoted  this  hav- 
ing formerly  been  a hermitage ; it  overhung  the  sea,  and  all 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, . 


156 

about  it  were  tremendous  crags,  against  which  the  waves  beat 
with  violence.  Over  a low-arched  door  was  a smooth  stone, 
with  the  following  lines  engraved  upon  it : — 

The  pilgrim  oft 

At  dead  of  night,  amid  his  orisons  hears 
Aghast  the  voice  of  time — disparting  towers 
Tumbling  all  precipitate  down,  dashed 
Rattling  around,  loud  thundering  to  the  moon.’’ — Dyer. 

Under  Amanda’s  superintending  care,  the  garden  soon  lost 
its  rude  appearance,  a new  couch  was  procured  for  the  hermit- 
age, which  she  ornamented  with  shells  and  sea-weeds,  render- 
ing it  a most  delightful  recess  ; the  trees  were  pruned,  the 
alleys  cleared  of  opposing  brambles,  and  over  the  wall  of  the 
gothic  temple  she  hung  the  flowers  she  had  purchased  at  St. 
Catherine’s,  in  fanciful  wreaths. 

She  often  ascended  the  devious  path  of  the  mountain, 
which  stretched  beyond  Castle  Carberry,  and  beheld  the  waves 
glittering  in  the  sunbeams,  from  which  its  foliage  sheltered 
her.  But  no  visionary  pleasures,  no  delightful  rambles,  no 
domestic  avocations  made  her  forgetful  to  the  calls  of  benevo^ 
lence ; she  visited  the  haunts  of  poverty,  and  relieved  its  ne- 
cessities to  the  utmost  of  her  power;  the  wretchedness  so 
often  conspicuous  among  many  of  the  lower  rank,  filled  her 
not  only  with  compassion,  but  surprise,  as  she  had  imagined 
that  liberty  and  a fruitful  soil  were  generally  attended  with 
comfort  and  prosperity.  Her  father,  to  whom  she  communi- 
cated this  idea,  informed  her  that  the  indigence  of  the  peasants 
proceeded  in  a great  degree  from  the  emigration  of  their  land- 
lords. Their  wealth,”  said  he,  ‘‘is  spent  in  foreign  lands, 
instead  of  enriching  those  from  whence  it  was  drawn  ; policy 
should  sometimes  induce  them  to  visit  their  estates  ; the  rev- 
enue of  half  a year  spent  on  them  would  necessarily  benefit 
the  poor  wretches  whose  labors  have  contributed  to  raise  it  ; 
and  by  exciting  their  gratitude,  add  inclination  to  industry,  and 
consequently  augment  their  profits. 

“ The  clouds  whicli  are  formed  by  mists  and  exhalations, 
return  to  the  places  from  whence  they  were  drawn  in  fertilizing 
showers  and  refreshing  dews,  and  almost  every  plant  enriches 
the  soil  from  which  it  sprung.  Nature,  indeed,  in  all  her 
works,  is  a glorious  precedent  to  man ; but  while  enslaved  by 
dissipation,  he  cannot  follow  her  example,  and  what  exquisite 
sources  of , enjoyment  does  he  lose — to  enlighten  the  toils  of 
labor,  to  cheer  the  child  of  poverty,  to  raise  the  drooping  head 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


157 

of  merit — oh  ! how  superior  to  the  revels  of  dissi]patIon,  or  the 
ostentation  of  wealth. 

‘‘  Real  happiness  is  forsaken  for  a gaudy  phantom  called 
pleasure  ; she  is  seldom  grasped  but  for  a moment — yet  in 
that  moment  has  power  to  fix  envenomed  stings  within  the 
breast.  The  heart  which  delights  in  domestic  joys,  which 
rises  in  pious  gratitude  to  heaven,  which  melts  at  human  woe, 
can  alone  experience  true  pleasure.  The  fortitude  with  which 
the  peasants  bear  their  sufferings  should  cure  discontent  of  its 
murmurs  ; they  support  adversity  without  complaining,  and 
those  who  possess  a pile  of  turf  against  the  severity  of  the  win- 
ter, a small  strip  of  ground  planted  with  cabbage  and  potatoes, 
a cow,  a pig,  and  some  poultry,  think  themselves  completely 
happy,  though  one  wretched  hovel  shelters  all  alike.’’ 

Oh  ! how  rapturous  ! thought  Amanda — the  idea  of  Lord 
Mortimer’s  feeling  recurring  to  her  mind- — to  change  such 
scenes ; to  see  the  clay-built  hovel  vanish,  and  a dwelling  of 
neatness  and  convenience  rise  in  its  stead  ; to  wander,  contin- 
ued she,  with  him  whose  soul  is  fraught  with  sensibility,  and  view 
the  projects  of  benevolence  realized  by  the  hand  of  charity ; 
see  the  faded  cheek  of  misery  regain  the  glow  of  health, 

*'The  desert  blossom  as  the  rose,” 

and  content  and  cheerfulness  sport  beneath  its  shades. 

From  such  an  ecstatic  reverie  as  this,  Amanda  was  roused 
one  morning  by  the  entrance  of  the  Kilcorbans  and  Lady 
Grey  stock  into  the  dressing-room  where  she  was  working. 
“ Oh  ! my  dear  ! ” cried  the  eldest  of  the  young  ladies,  we 
have  such  enchanting  news  to  tell  you.  Only  think,  who  is 
coming  down  here  immediately — your  uncle  and  aunt  and 
cousin.  An  express  came  this  morning  from  Dublin,  where 
they  now  are,  to  the  steward  at  Ulster  Lodge,  to  have  every- 
thing prepared  against  next  week  for  them.  I declare,”  said 
Miss  Alicia,  I shall  quite  envy  you  the  delightful  amusement 
you  will  have  with  them.”  Amanda  blushed,  and  felt  a little 
confused.  “You  will  have  no  reason,  then,  I fancy,”  replied 
she,  “for  I really  do  not  know  them.”  “Oh,  Lord!”  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Kilcorban,  “ well,  that  is  very  comical,  not  to 
know  your  own  relations ; but  perhaps  they  always  lived  in 
Scotland,  and  you  were  afraid  to  cross  the  sea  to  pay  them  a 
visit.”  “ If  that  was  the  only  fear  she  had,”  said  Lady  Grey- 
stock,  with  a satirical  smile,  “ she  could  easily  have  surmounted 
it : besides,  would  it  not  have  held  good  with  respect  to  one 
place  as  well  as  another  ? ” “ Well,  I never  thought  of  that/' 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


tss 

cried  Mrs.  Kilcorban : but  pray,  miss,  may  I ask  the  reason 
why  you  do  not  know  them  by  letter  ? ’’  ‘‘  It  can  be  of  very 

little  consequence  to  you,  madam,’’  replied  Amanda,  coolly, 
‘‘  to  hear  it.”  They  say  Lady  Euphrasia  Sutherland  is  very 
accomplished,”  exclaimed  Miss  Kilcorban;  ‘‘so  a correspond- 
ence with  her  would  have  been  delightful.  I dare  say  you 
write  sweetly  yourself ; so  if  ever  you  leave  Castle  Carberry, 
I beg  you  will  favor  me  with  letters,  for  of  all  things,  I doal 
on  a sentimental  correspondence.”  “ No  wonder,”  said  Lady 
Greystock,  “you  are  so  particularly  well  qualified  to  support 
one.”  “ But,  my  dear  ! ” resumed  Miss  Kilcorban,  “ we  are 
to  give  the  most  enchanting  ball  that  ever  was  given  in  this 
world ! Papa  says  we  shall  have  full  liberty  to  do  as  we  please 
respecting  it.”  “ It  will  be  a troublesome  affair,  I am  afraid,” 
said  Mrs.  Kilcorban.  “We  are  to  have  confectioners  and 
French  cooks  from  Dublin,”  continued  her  daughter,  with- 
out minding  this  interruption.  “ Everything  is  to  be  quite  in 
style  and  prepared  against  the  third  night  of  the  marquis  and 
marchioness’s  arrival ; so,  my  dear,  you  and  your  papa  wil,f 
hold  yourselves  in  readiness  for  our  summons.”  Amanda 
bowed.  “ My  sister  and  I are  to  have  dancing  dresses  from 
town,  but  I will  not  give  you  an  idea  of  the  manner  in  which 
we  have  ordered  them  to  be  made.  I assure  you,  you  will  be 
absolutely  surprised  and  charmed  when  you  see  them.  All 
the  elegant  men  in  the  country  will  be  at  our  entertainment. 
I dare  say  you  will  be  vastly  busy  preparing  for  it.”  “ Nature,” 
said  Lady  Greystock,  “ has  been  too  bounteous  to  Miss  Fitz- 
alan,  to  render  such  preparations  necessary.”  “Oh,  Lord  ! ” 
cried  the  young  ladies,  with  a toss  of  their  heads,  “ Miss  Fitz- 
alan  is  not  such  a fool,  I suppose,  as  to  wish  to  appear  unlike 
every  one  else  in  her  dress,  but,”  rising  with  their  mamma,  and 
saluting  her  much  more  formally  than  they  had  done  at  theit 
entrance,  “ she  is  the  best  judge  of  that.” 

Fitzalan  had  never  seen  the  marchioness  since  his  marriage, 
nor  did  he  ever  again  wish  to  behold  her.  The  inhumanity 
with  which  she  had  treated  her  lovely  sister — the  malice  with 
which  she  had  augmented  her  father’s  resentment  against  the 
poor  sufferer,  had  so  strongly  prepossessed  his  mind  with  ideas 
of  the  selfishness  and  implacability  of  hers,  as  to  excite  senti- 
ments of  distaste  and  aversion  for  her.  He  considered  her 
as  the  usurper  of  his  children’s  rights — as  accessory  to  the 
death  of  his  adored  Malvina,  and  consequently  the  author  of 
the  agonies  he  endured — agonies  which  time,  aided  by  religion, 
^ould  scarcely  conquer. 


rim  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBJSY. 


'Sy 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Oh  love,  how  are  thy  precious,  sweetest  minutes 
Thus  ever  crossed,  thus  vexed  with  disappointments  ; 

Now  pride,  now  fickleness,  fantastic  quarrels, 

And  sullen  coldness  give  us  pain  by  turns,” — Rowe- 

At  the  expected  time,  the  marquis  and  his  family  arrived 
with  great  splendor  at  Ulster  Lodge,  which  was  immediately 
crowded  with  visitors  of  the  first  consequence  in  the  county, 
among  whom  were  the  Kilcorbans,  whose  affluent  fortune  gave 
them  great  respectability.  Mr.  Kilcorban  wished,  indeed,  to 
be  first  in  paying  his  compliments  to  the  marquis,  who  had  a 
borough  in  his  disposal  he  was  desirous  of  being  returned  for. 
Disappointed  the  last  time  he  set  up  as  one  oE  the  candidates 
for  the  county,  this  was  his  only  chance  of  entering  that  house 
he  had  long  been  ambitious  for  a seat  in.  He  knew,  indeed, 
his  oratorical  powers  were  not  very  great — often  saying,  he 
had  not  the  gift  of  the  gab  like  many  of  the  honorable  gentle- 
men ; but  then  he  could  stamp  and  stare,  and  look  up  to  the 
gods  and  goddesses  ^ for  their  approbation,  with  the  best  of 
them  ; and,  besides,  his  being  a member  of  parliament  would 
increase  his  consequence,  at  least  in  the  country. 

The  female  part  of  his  family  went  from  Ulster  Lodge  to 
Castle  Carberry,  which  they  entered  with  a more  consequential 
air  than  ever,  as  if  they  derived  new  consequence  from  the 
visit  they  had  been  paying.  Instead  of  flying  up  to  Amanda, 
as  usual,  the  young  ladies  swam  into  the  room,  with  what  they 
imagined,  a most  bewitching  elegance,  and,  making  a sliding 
curtsey,  flung  themselves  upon  a sofa,  exactly  opposite  a 
glass,  and  alternately  viewed  themselves,  and  pursued  their 
remarks  on  Lady  Euphrasia’s  dress.  ‘‘  Well,  certainly,  Alicia,’’ 
said  Miss  Kilcorban,  ‘‘  I will  have  a morning  gown  made  in 
imitation  of  her  ladyship’s  : that  frill  of  fine  lace  about  the 
neck  is  the  most  becoming  thing  in  nature  ; and  the  pale  blue 
lining  sweetly  adapted  for  a delicate  complexion.”  I think, 
Charlotte,”  cried  Miss  Alicia,  “ I will  have  my  tambour  muslin 
in  the  same  style,  but  lined  with  pink  to  set  ofE  the  work.” 

“ This  aunt  of  yours,  my  dear,”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Kilcoi- 


• Ladies  were  admitted  to  the  gallery  of  the  Irish  House  of  Commons. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEYF 


160 

ban,  is  really  a personable-looking  woman  enough,  and  her 
daughter  a pretty  little  sort  of  body.” 

“ Oh  1 they  are  charming  creatures,”  cried  both  the  young 
ladies  ; ‘‘  so  elegant,  so  irresistibly  genteel.” 

‘‘  Your  ideas  and  mine,  then,”  said  Lady  Greystock,  differ 
widely  about  elegance  and  irresistibility,  if  you  ascribe  either 
to  the  ladies  in  question,  Mr.  Kilcorban,”  continued  she, 
turning  to  Amanda,  ‘‘  feared,  I believe,  my  Lord  Marquis  would 
fly  across  the  sea  in  a few  hours  ; and  that  he  might  catch  him 
ere  he  took  wing,  never  ceased  tormenting  us,  from  the  time 
breakfast  was  over  till  we  entered  the  carriage,  to  make  haste, 
though  he  might  have  known  it  was  quite  too  early  for  flne 
folks  to  be  visible. 

Well,  we  posted  off  to  Ulster  Lodge,  as  if  life  and  death 
depended  on  our  dispatch.  Mr.  Kilcorban  was  ushered  into 
the  marquis’s  study,  and  we  into  an  empty  room,  to  amuse 
ourselves,  if  we  pleased,  with  portraits  of  the  marquis’s  ances- 
tors ; whilst  bells  in  all  quarters  were  tingling — maids  and 
footmen  running  up  and  down  stairs — and  cats,  dogs,  monkeys, 
and  parrots,  which  I found  composed  part  of  the  travelling 
retinue,  were  scratching,  barking,  chattering,  and  screaming,  in 
a room  contiguous  to  the  one  we  occupied.  At  length  a fine, 
perfumed  jessamy  made  his  appearance,  and  saying  the  ladies 
were  ready  to  have  the  honor  of  receiving  us,  skipped  up  stairs 
like  a harlequin.  The  marchioness  advanced  about  two  steps 
from  her  couch  to  receive  us,  and  Lady  Euphrasia  half  rose 
from  her  seat,  and  after  contemplating  us  for  a minute,  as  if  to 
know  whether  we  were  to  be  considered  as  human  creatures  or 
not,  sunk  back  into  her  former  attitude  of  elegant  languor,  and 
continued  her  conversation  with  a young  nobleman  who  had 
accompanied  them  from  England.” 

‘‘Well,  I hope  you  will  allow  he  is  a divine  creature,”  ex- 
claimed Miss  Kilcorban,  in  an  accent  of  rapture.  “ Oh  ! what 
eyes  he  has,”  cried  her  sister;  “ what  an  harmonious  voice  ! 
I really  never  beheld  any  one  so  exquisitely  handsome  ! ” 

“ Lord  Mortimer,  indeed,”  said  Lady  Greystock — Amanda 
started,  blushed,  turned  pale,  panted  as  if  for  breath,  and 
stared  as  if  in  amazement.  “ Bless  me.  Miss  Fitzalan,”  asked 
her  ladyship,  “ are  you  ill  ” “ No,  madam,”  replied  Amanda, 

in  a trembling  voice  ; “ ’tis  only — ’tis  only  a little  palpitation  of 
the  heart  I am  subject  to.  I have  interrupted  your  ladyship ; 
pray  proceed.”  “ Well,”  continued  Lady  Greystock,  “ I was 
saying  that  Lord  Mortimer  was  one  of  the  most  elegant  and 
engaging  young  men  I had  ever  beheld.  His  expressive  eye^^ 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


i6j 

seemed  to  reprove  the  folly  of  his  fair  companion ; and  het 
neglect  made  him  doubly  assiduous,  which  to  me  was  a most 
convincing  proof  of  a noble  mind.’’ 

How  did  the  heart  of  Amanda  swell  with  pleasure  at  this 
warm  eulogium  on  Lord  Mortimer!  The  fear  of  delight,  of 
refined  affection,  sprung  to  her  eye,  and  could  scarcely  be  pre- 
vented falling, 

“ Lord,  madam,”  cried  Miss  Kilcorban,  whose  pride  was 
mortified  at  Amanda’s  hearing  of  the  cool  reception  they  had 
met  mth,  “ I can’t  conceive  the  reason  you  ascribe  such  rude- 
ness and  conceit  to  Lady  Euphrasia  ; ’tis  really  quite  a mis- 
construction o^  the  etiquette  necessary  to  be  observed  by  people 
of  rank.” 

“I  am  glad,  my  dear,”  replied  Lady  Greystock,  ‘‘you  are 
now  beginning  to  profit  by  the  many  lessons  I have  given  you 
on  humility.” 

“ I assure  you.  Miss,”  said  Mrs.  Kilcorban,  “ I did  not 
forget  to  tell  the  marchioness  she  had  a niece  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. I thought,  indeed,  she  seemed  a little  shy  on  the 
subject ; so  I suppose  there  has  been  a difference  in  the  families, 
particularly  as  you  don’t  visit  her ; but,  at  our  ball,  perhaps, 
everything  may  be  settled.”  Amanda  made  no  reply  to  this 
speech,  and  the  ladies  departed. 

Her  bosom,  as  may  well  be  supposed,  was  agitated  with  the 
most  violent  perturbations  on  hearing  of  Lord  Mortimer’s  being 
in  the  neighborhood.  The  pleasure  she  felt  at  the  first  intel- 
ligence gradually  subsided  on  reflecting  he  was  an  inmate, 
probably  a friend,  of  those  relations  who  had  contributed  to 
the  destruction  of  her  mother ; and  who,  from  the  character  she 
had  heard  of  them, -it  was  not  uncharitable  to  think,  would  feel 
no  great  regret,  if  her  children  experienced  a destiny  equally 
severe.  Might  they  not  infuse  some  prejudices  against  her 
into  his  bosom  ; to  know  she  was  the  child  of  the  unfortunate 
Malvina,  would  be  enough  to  provoke  their  enmity  ; or,  if  they 
were  silent,  might  not  Lady  Euphrasia,  adorned  with  every 
advantage  of  rank  and  fortune,  have  won,  or  at  least  soon  win, 
his  affections  ? 

Yet  scarcely  did  these  ideas  obtrude,  ere  she  reproached 
herself  for  them  as  injurious  to  Lord  Mortimer,  from  whose 
noble  nature  she  thought  she  might  believe  his  constancy  never 
would  be  shaken,  except  she  herself  gave  him  reason  to  relin- 
quish it. 

She  now  cheered  her  desponding  spirits,  by  recalling  the 
ideas  she  had  long  indulged  with  delight,  as  her  residence  was 


%62 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


still  a secret  to  the  Edwins,  whose  letters  to  their  daughter 
were,  by  Fitzalan’s  orders,  constantly  directed  to  a distant  town 
from  whence  hers,  in  return,  were  sent.  She  concluded  chance 
had  informed  Lord  Mortimer  of  it,  and  flattered  herself,  that  to 
avoid  the  suspicion  which  a solitary  journey  to  Ireland  might 
create  in  the  mind  of  Lord  Cherbury,  he  had  availed  himself  of 
the  Marquis’s  party,  and  come  to  try  whether  she  was  un- 
changed,  and  her  father  would  sanction  their  attachment,  ere 
he  avowed  it  to  the  earl. 

Whilst  fluctuating  between  hope  and  fear,  Ellen,  all  pale 
and  breathless,  ran  into  the  room,  exclaiming,  ‘‘  He  is  come'f 
he  is  come  ! Lord  Mortimer  is  come  ! ’’ 

“ Oh,  heavens  I ’’  sighed  Amanda,  sinking  back  in  her  chair, 
and  dropping  her  trembling  hands  before  her.  Ellen,  alarmed, 
blamed  herself  for  her  precipitation,  and,  flying  to  a cabinet, 
snatched  a bottle  of  lavender  water  from  it,  which  she  plentifully 
sprinkled  over  her,  and  then  assisted  her  to  a window.  ‘‘  1 
was  so  flurried,’’  cried  the  good-natured  girl,  as  she  saw  her 
mistress  recovering,  ‘‘  I did  not  know  what  I was  about. 
Heaven  knows,  the  sight  of  poor  Chip  himself  could  not  have 
given  me  more  pleasure.  I was  crossing  the  hall  when  I saw 
his  lortship  alighting  ; and  to  be  sure,  if  one  of  the  old  warriors 
had  stepped  out  of  his  niche — and  the  tefil  take  them  all,  I say, 
for  they  grin  so  horribly  they  frighten  me  out  of  my  wits  if  I go 
through  the  hall  of  a dark  evening — so  if  one  of  them  old 
fellows,  as  I was  saying,  had  jumped  out,  I could  not  have 
peen  more  startled,  and  pack  I ran  into  the  little  parlor,  and 
there  I heard  his  lortship  inquiring  for  my  master  ; and  to  be 
sure  the  sound  of  his  voice  did  my  heart  good,  for  he  is  an  old 
friend,  as  one  may  say.  So  as  soon  as  he  went  into  the  study, 
I stole  up  stairs  ; and  one  may  guess  what  he  and  my  master 
are  talking  about,  I think.” 

The  emotion  of  Amanda  increased.  She  trembled  so  she 
could  not  stand.  She  felt  as  if  her  destiny,  her  future  happiness, 
depended  on  this  minute.  In  vain  she  endeavored  to  regain 
composure.  Her  spirits  were  wound  up  to  the  highest  pitch  of 
expectation,  and  the  agitations  inseparable  from  such  a state 
were  not  to  be  repressed. 

She  continued  near  an  hour  in  this  situation,  when  the  voice 
of  Mortimer  struck  her  ear.  She  started  up,  and,  standing  in 
the  centre  of  the  room,  saw  him  walking  down  the  lawn  with 
her  father,  who  left  him  when  he  had  reached  the  gate,  where 
his  servants  and  horses  were.  The  chill  of  disappointment 
pervaded  the  heart  of  Amanda,  and  a shower  of  tears  fell  from 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


i6i 

her.  Ellen,  who  had  remained  in  the  room,  was  almost  as 
much  disappointed  as  her  mistress.  She  muttered  something 
about  the  inconstancy  of  men.  They  were  all,  for  her  part,  she 
pelieved,  alike  ; all  like  Mr,  Chip — captious  on  every  occasion, 
The  dinner-bell  now  summoned  Amanda.  She  dried  her  eyes, 
and  tied  on  a little  straw  hat  to  conceal  their  redness.  Witl 
much  confusion  she  appeared  before  her  father.  His  penetra 
ting  eye  was  instantly  struck  with  her  agitation  and  pallid  looks, 
and  he  conjectured  she  knew  of  the  visit  he  had  received.  0?;, 
receiving  that  visit,  he  wondered  not  at  the  strength  of  her 
attachment.  The  noble  and  ingenuous  air  of  Lord  Mortimer 
had  immediately  prepossessed  Fitzalan  in  his  favor.  He  saw 
him  adorned  with  all  those  perfections  which  are  calculated  to 
make  a strong  and  permanent  impression  on  a heart  of  sensi- 
bility, and  he  gave  a sigh  to  the  cruel  necessity  which  compelled 
him  to  separate  two  beings  of  such  congenial  loveliness  ; but 
as  that  necessity  neither  was  or  could  be  overcome,  he  rejoiced 
that  Lord  Mortimer,  instead  of  visiting  him  on  account  of  his 
daughter,  had  merely  come  on  affairs  relative  to  the  castle,  and 
had  inquired  for  her  with  a coolness  which  seemed  to  declare 
his  love  totally  subdued.  Not  the  smallest  hint  relative  to  the 
letter  in  which  he  had  proposed  for  her  dropped  from  him,  and 
Fitzalan  concluded  his  affections  were  transferred  to  some  ob- 
ject more  the  favorite  of  fortune  than  his  portionless  Amanda. 

This  object,  he  was  inclined  to  believe,  was  Lady  Euphrasia 
Sutherland,  from  what  Lord  Cherbury  had  said  concerning  the 
splendid  alliance  he  had  in  view  for  his  son,  and  from  Lord 
Mortimer’s  accompanying  the  Roslin  family  to  Ireland. 

He  felt  he  had  not  fortitude  to  mention  those  conjectures 
to  Amanda.  He  rather  wished  she  should  imbibe  them  from 
her  own  observation  ; and  pride,  he  then  trusted,  weald  come 
to  her  aid,  and  stimulate  her  to  overcome  her  attachment. 
Dinner  passed  in  silence.  When  the  servant  was  withdrawn, 
he  resolved  to  relieve  the  anxiety  which  her  looks  informed 
him  pressed  upon  her  heart,  by  mentioning  the  visit  of  Lord 
Mortimer.  He  came,  he  told  her,  merely  to  see  the  state  the 
castle  was  in,  and  thus  proceeded  : “ Lord  Mortime/ is,  indeed, 
an  elegant  and  sensible  young  man,  and  will  do  honor  to  the. 
house  from  which  he  is  descended.  He  had  long  wished,  he 
told  me,  to  visit  this  estate,  which  was  endeared  to  him  by  the 
remembrance  of  his  juvenile  days,  but  particularly  by  its  being 
the  place  of  his  mother’s  nativity,  and  her  favorite  residence  ; 
and  the  opportunity  of  travelling  with  an  agreeable  party,  had 
determined  him  no  longer  to  defer  gratifying  this  wish. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


164 

He  mentioned  his  mother  in  terms  of  the  truest  respect 
ind  tenderness  ; and  his  softened  voice,  his  tearful  eye,  pro- 
claimed his  heart  the  mansion  of  sensibility.  His  virtues,  like 
his  praises,  will  do  honor  to  her  memory.  He  had  been  toldi 
the  castle  was  in  a very  ruinous  state,  and  was  agreeably  sur 
prised  to  find  it  in  as  good  order  as  could  be  expected  from 
its  ancient  date.  He  desired  to  see  the  garden,  which  haC/ 
been  laid  out  under  the  direction  of  his  mother.  He  expected 
not  to  have  "^ound  a vestige  of  her  taste  remaining,  and  was 
consequently  charmed  to  find  himself  mistaken.  Every  spot 
appeared  to  remind  him  of  sorrie  happy  hour,  especially  the 
gothic  temple.  How  many  happy  minutes  have  I passed  in 
this  place/  said  his  lordship,  after  a silence  for  some  time, 

‘ with  the  best  of  women.’ — Upon  my  word,  Amanda,”  con- 
tinued Fitzalan,  you  have  ornamented  it  in  a very  fanciful 
manner.  I really  thought  his  lordship  would  have  stolen  some 
of  your  lilies  or  roses,  he  examined  them  so  accurately.” 
Amanda  blushed,  and  her  father  still  perceiving  expectation  in 
her  eyes,  thus  went  on  : His  lordship  looked  at  some  of  the 
adjacent  grounds  ; and  as  he  has  mentioned  what  improve- 
ments he  thought  necessary  to  be  made  in  them,  I fancy  he 
will  not  repeat  his  visit,  or  stay  much  longer  in  the  kingdom.” 

In  a few  minutes  after  this  conversation  Fitzalan  repaired 
to  his  library,  and  Amanda  to  the  garden.  She  hastened  to 
the  temple.  Never  had  she  before  thought  it  so  picturesque, 
or  such  an  addition  to  the  landscape.  The  silence  of  Lord 
Mortimer  on  entering  it,  she  did  not,  like  her  father,  believe 
proceeded  altogether  from  retracing  scenes  of  former  happiness 
with  his  mother.  ‘‘  No,”  said  she,  “ in  this  spot  he  also,  per- 
haps, thought  of  Amanda.” 

True,  he  had  mentioned  her  with  indifference  to  her  father, 
but  that  might  (and  she  would  flatter  herself  it  did)  proceed 
from  resentment,  excited  by  her  precipitate  flight  from  Wales, 
at  a period  when  his  received  addresses  gave  him  a right  to  in- 
formation about  all  her  actions,  and  by  her  total  neglect  of  him 
since.  Their  first  interview,  she  trusted,  would  effect  a recon- 
ciliation, by  producing  an  explanation.  Her  father  then,  she 
flattered  herself,  tender  as  he  was,  depending  on  her  for  hap- 
piness, and  prepossessed  in  Lord  Mortimer’s  favor,  would  no 
longer  oppose  their  attachment,  but  allow  Lord  Cherbury  to  be 
informed  of  it,  who  she  doubted  not,  would,  in  this  as  well  as 
every  other  instance,  prove  himself  truly  feeling  and  disinter- 
ested. 

Thus  did  Amanda,  by  encouraging  ideas  agreeable  to  her 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


wishes,  try  to  soften  the  disappointment  she  had  experienced 
in  the  morning.  Fitzalan,  on  meeting  his  daughter  at  tea,  was 
not  surprised  to  hear  she  had  been  in  the  gothic  teiiiple,  but  he 
was  to  see  her  wear  so  cheerful  an  appearance.  He  was  no 
stranger  to  the  human  heart,  and  he  was  convinced  some  flat- 
tering illusion  could  alone  have  enabled  her  to  shake  off  the 
sadness  with  which,  but  an  hour  before,  she  had  been  op* 
pressed.  The  sooner  such  an  illusion  was  removed,  the  bet- 
ter ; and  to  allow  her  to  see  Lord  Mortimer,  he  imagined  would 
be  the  most  effectual  measure  for  such  a purpose. 

The  more  he  reflected  on  that  young  nobleman’s  manner, 
and  what  he  himself  had  heard  from  Lord  Cherbury,  the  more 
he  was  convinced  Lady  Euphrasia  Sutherland  was  not  only  th^ 
object  destined  for  Lord  Mortimer,  but  the  one  who  now  pos- 
sessed his  affections  ; and  believed  his  visit  to  Castle  Carberry 
had  been  purposely  made,  to  announce  the  alteration  of  his 
sentiments  by  the  coldness  of  his  conduct,  and  check  any 
hopes  which  his  appearance  in  the  neighborhood  might  have 
created. 

He  had  hesitated  about  Amanda’s  accepting  the  invitation 
to  the  Kilcorban’s  ball ; but  he  now  determined  she  should  go, 
impressed  with  the  idea  of  her  being  there  convinced  of  the 
change  in  Lord  Mortimer’s  sentiments — a conviction  he  deemed 
necessary  to  produce  one  in  her  own. 

Amanda  impatiently  longed  for  this  night,  which  sh(?  be- 
lieved would  realize  either  her  hopes  or  fears. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

^ A crimson  blush  her  beauteous  face  o’erspread, 

Varying  her  cheeks  by  turns  with  white  and  red  5 
The  driving  colors,  never  at  a stay, 

Kun  here  and  there,  and  flush  and  fade  away; 
pelightful  change!  thus  Indian  ivory  shows, 

With  which  the  bordering  paint  of  purple  glows, 

Or  lilies  damasked  by  the  neighboring  rose.” — Drydem. 


The  wished-for  night  at  length  arrived,  and  Amanda  a?- 
rayed  herself  for  it  with  a fluttering  heart.  The  reflection  of 
her  mirror  did  not  depress  her  spirits:  hope  had  increased  the| 
brilliancy  of  her  eyes,  and  given  an  additional  glow  to  her 
complexion.  Ellen,  who  delighted  in  the  charms  of  her  dear 
young  lady,  declared  many  of  the  irish  .ladies  would  hov-o 


%66 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


reason  ■:o  envy  her  that  night  an4  Fitzalan  when  he  entered 
the  parlor  was  struck  with  her  surpassing  loveliness.  He 
gazed  on  het  with  a rapture  that  brought  tears  into  his  eyes, 
and  felt  a secret  pride  at  the  idea  of  the  marchioness  behold- 
ing this  sweet  descendant  of  her  neglected  sister — 

“ Into  such  beauty  spread  and  blown  so  fair, 

Though  poverty's  cold  wind,  and  crushing  ram, 

Beat  keen  and  heavy  on  her  tender  years. 

“ No,”  said  he  to  himself,  “ the  titled  Euphrasia,  if  she 
equals,  cannot  at  least  surpass  my  Amanda — meekness  and 
innocence  dwell  upon  the  brow  of  fny  child  ; but  the  haughty 
marchioness  will  teach  pride  to  lower  upon  Lady  Euphrasia.” 

Amanda,  on  reaching  Grangeville,  found  the  avenue  full  of 
carriages.  The  lights  dispersed  through  the  house  gave  it 
quite  the  appearance  of  an  illumination.  It  seemed,  indeed, 
the  mansion  of  gayety  and  splendor.  Her  knees  trembled  as 
she  ascended  the  stairs.  She  wished  for  time  to  compose  her- 
self, but  the  door  opened,  her  name  was  announced,  and  Mrs. 
Kilcorban  came  forward  to  receive  her.  The  room,  though 
spacious,  was  extiemely  crowded.  It  was  decorated  in  a fan* 
ciful  manner  with  festoons  of  flowers,  intermingled  with  varie- 
gated lamps.  Immediately  over  the  entrance  was  the  orchestra, 
and  opposite  to  it  sat  the  marchioness  and  her  party.  The 
heart  of  Amanda  beat,  if  possible,  with  increased  quickness  on 
the  approach  of  Mrs.  Kilcorban,  and  her  voice  was  lost  in  her 
emotions.  Recollecting,  however,  that  the  scrutinizing  eyes  of 
Lord  Mortimer,  and  her  imperious  relations,  wxre  now  on  her, 
she  almost  immediately  recovered  composure,  and  with  her 
usual  elegance  walked  up  the  room.  Most  of  the  company 
were  strangers  to  her,  and  she  heard  a general  buzz  of  ‘‘ Whf 
is  she  ? ” accompanied  wdth  expressions  of  admiration  from  the 
gentlemen,  among  whom  were  the  officers  of  a garrison  town 
near  Grangeville.  Confused  by  the  notice  she  attracted,  she 
hastened  to  the  first  seat  she  found  vacant,  which  was  near  the 
marchioness. 

Universal,  indeed,  was  the  admiration  she  had  excited 
among  the  male  part  of  the  company,  by  her  beauty,  unaffected 
graces,  and  simplicity  of  dress. 

She  wore  a robe  of  plain  white  lutestring,  and  a crape  tur- 
ban, ornamented  with  a plume  of  drooping  feathers.  She  had 
no  appearance  of  finery,  except  a chain  of  pearls  about  her 
bosom,  from  which  hung  her  mother’s  picture,  and  a light 
wreath  of  embroidered  laurel,  intermingled  with  silver  blossomy 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


167 

rovnd  her  petticoat.  Her  hair,  in  its  own  native  and  glossy 
hue,  floated  on  her  shoulders,  and  partly  shaded  a cheek  where 
the  purity  of  the  lily  was  tinted  with  the  softest  bloom  of  the 
rose.  On  gaining  a seat,  her  confusion  subsided.  She  looked 
up,  and  the  first  eyes  she  met  were  those  of  Lord  Mortimer 
(who  leaned  on  Lady  Euphrasia  Sutherland’s  chair),  fastened 
on  her  face  with  a scrutinizing  earnestness,  as  if  he  wished  to 
penetrate  the  recesses  of  her  heart,  and  discover  whether  he 
yet  retained  a place  in  it.  She  blushed,  and  looking  from  him, 
perceived  she  was  an  object  of  critical  attention  to  the  mar- 
chioness and  Lady  Euphrasia.  There  was  a malignant  expres- 
sion in  their  countenances,  which  absolutely  shocked  her  ; and 
she  felt  a sensation  of  horror  at  beholding  the  former,  who  had 
50  largely  contributed  to  the  sorrows  of  her  mother.  ‘‘  Can  it 
be  possible,”  said  Lady  Euphrasia,  replying  to  a young  and 
elegant  officer  who  stood  by  her,  in  a tone  of  affectation,  and 
with  an  impertinent  sneer,  that  you  think  her  handsome  ? 

Handsome,”  exclaimed  he  with  warmth,  as  if  involuntarily 
repeating  her  ladyship’s  word,  ‘‘  I think  her  bewitchingly  irre- 
sistible. They  told  me  I was  coming  to  the  land  of  saints  ; ” 
but,  glancing  his  sparkling  eyes  around,  and  fixing  them  on 
Amanda ; I find  it  is  the  land  of  goddesses.” 

The  marchioness  haughtily  frowned  — Lady  Euphrasia 
smiled  satirically,  tossed  her  head,  and  played  with  her  fan. 
The  propensities  to  envy  and  ill-nature,  which  the  marchioness 
had  shown  in  her  youth,  were  not  less  visible  in  age.  As  they 
were  then  excited  on  her  own  account,  so  were  they  now  on 
her  daughter’s.  To  engross  praise  and  admiration  for  her,  she 
wished  beauty  blasted,  and  merit  extirpated ; nor  did  she  ever 
fail,  when  in  her  power,  to  depreciate  one,  and  cast  an  invidious 
cloud  of  calumny  over  the  other.  She  beheld  Amanda  with 
envy  ^nd  hatred.  Notwithstanding  her  partiality  to  her  daugh- 
ter, she  could  not  avoid  seeing  her  vast  inferiority,  in  point  of 
personal  charms,  to  her  young  relation.  True,  Lady  Euphrasia 
possessed  a fortune,  which  would  always  insure  her  attention  ; 
but  it  was  that  unimpassioned  and  studied  attention  selfishness 
dictates,  the  mere  tribute  of  flattery.  How  different  from  the 
spontaneous  attention  which  Amanda  excited,  who,  though 
portionless  and  untitled,  was  beheld  with  admiration,  followed 
with  praise,  and  courted  with  assiduity  ! 

Lady  Euphrasia’s  mind  was  the  counterpart  of  her  mother^  \ 
but  in  figure  she  resembled  her  father.  Her  stature  was  low, 
her  features  contracted,  and  though  of  the  same  age  as  Aman- 
da,  their  harsh  expression  made  her  appear  much  older. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBE  Y.  ' 


1 68 

Though  blessed  with  the  abundant  gifts  of  fortune,  she  was 
unhappy,  if,  from  any  one’s  manner,  she  conceived  that  they 
thought  nature  had  not  been  quite  so  liberal  to  her.  In  the 
domestic  circle,  constant  flattery  kept  her  in  good-humor  ; but 
when  out,  she  was  frequently  chagrined  at  seeing  womCi^,  infi> 
nitely  below  her  in  rank  and  fortune,  more  noticed  than  herself. 

At  the  ball  she  supposed  she  should  have  appeared  as  little 
less,  at  least,  than  a demi-goddess.  Art  and  fashion  were  ex- 
hausted in  adorning  her,  and  she  entered  the  room  with  all  the 
insolence  of  conscious  rank  and  affectation  of  beauty.  As  she 
walked  she  appeared  scarcely  able  to  support  her  delicate  frame, 
and  her  languishing  eyes  were  half  closed.  She  could,  how- 
ever, see  there  was  a number  of  pretty  women  present,  and 
felt  disconcerted.  The  respect,  however,  which  she  was  paid, 
a little  revived  her;  and  having  contrived  to  detain  Lord  Morti- 
mer by  her  chair  and  Sir  Charles  Bingley,  the  young  officer 
^ilready  mentioned,  who  was  colonel  of  a regiment  quartered 
in  an  adjacent  town,  she  soon  felt  her  spirits  uncommonly 
exhilarated  by  the  attentions  of  two  of  the  most  elegant  men 
jn  the  room  ; and  like  a proud  sultana  in  the  midst  of  her 
slaves,  was  enjoying  the  compliments  she  extorted  from  them 
by  her  prefatory  speeches,  when  the  door  opened,  and  Amanda, 
like  an  angel  of  light,  appeared  to  dissolve  the  mists  of  vanity 
and  self-importance.  Lord  Mortimer  was  silent,  but  his  speak- 
ing eyes  confessed  his  feelings.  Sir  Charles  Bingley,  who  had 
no  secret  motive  to  conceal  his,  openly  avowed  his  admiration, 
to  which  Lady  Euphrasia  replied  as  has  been  already  mem 
tioned. 

All  the  rapture  Sir  Charles  expressed  Lord  Mortimer  felt. 
His  soul  seemed  on  the  wing  to  fly  to  Amanda — to  utter  its 
feelings — to  discover  hers  and  chide  her  for  her  conduct.  This 
first  emotion  of  tenderness,  however,  quickly  subsided,  on  rec- 
ollecting what  that  conduct  had  been — how  cruelly,  how  un- 
gratefully she  had  used  him.  Fled  in  the  very  moment  of  hope 
and  expectation,  leaving  him  a prey  to  distrust,  anxiety,  and 
regret,  he  dreaded  some  fatal  mystery — some  improper  attach- 
ment (experience  had  rendered  him  suspicious),  which  neither 
she  nor  her  father  could  avow  ; for  never  did  he  imagine  that 
the  scrupulous  delicacy  of  Fitzalan  alone  had  effected  their 
separation.  He  still  adored  Amanda ; he  neither  could  nor 
desired  to  drive  her  from  his  thoughts,  except  well  assured  she 
was  unworthy  of  being  harbored  in  them,  and  felt  unutterable 
impatience  to  have  her  mysterious  conduct  explained.  From 
Tudor  Hall  he  had  repaired  to  London,  restless  and  unhappyo 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  169 

Soon  after  his  arrival  there,  the  marquis  proposed  his  accom- 
panying him  to  Ireland.  This  he  declined,  having  reason  to 
think  Lord  Cherbury  meditated  an  alliance  for  him  with  his 
family.  The  earl  expressed  regret  at  his  refusal.  He  said  he 
wished  he  would  join  the  marquis’s  party,  as  he  wanted  his 
opinion  relative  to  the  state  of  Castle  Carberry,  where  a man 
of  integrity  then  resided,  who  would  have  any  alterations  or 
repairs  he  might  think  necessary  executed  in  the  most  eligible 
manner.  He  mentioned  the  name  of  Fitzalan.  Lord  Mortimer 
was  surprised  and  agitated.  He  concealed  his  emotions,  how- 
ever, and  with  apparent  carelessness,  asked  a few  questions 
about  him,  and  found  that  he  was  indeed  the  father  of  Amanda. 
She  was  not  mentioned,  nor  did  he  dare  to  inquire  concerning 
her  ; but  he  immediately  declared  that  since  his  father  wished 
it  so  much,  he  would  accompany  the  marquis.  This  was  ex- 
tremely pleasing  to  that  nobleman,  and  he  and  Lord  Cherbury 
had  in  reality  agreed  upon  a union  between  him  and  Lady 
Euphrasia,  and  meant  soon  openly  to  avow  their  intention. 
Lord  Mortimer  suspected,  and  Lady  Euphrasia  was  already 
apprised  of  it ; and  from  vanity,  was  pleased  at  the  idea  of 
being  connected  with  a man  so  universally  admired.  Love  was 
out  of  the  question,  for  she  had  not  sufficient  sensibility  to  ex- 
perience it. 

He,  cautious  of  creating  hopes  which  he  never  meant  to 
realize,  treated  her  only  with  the  attention  which  common 
politeness  demanded,  and  on  every  occasion  seemed  to  prefer 
the  marchioness’s  conversation  to  hers,  intending  by  this  con- 
duct to  crush  the  projected  scheme  in  embryo,  and  spare  him- 
self the  mortification  of  openly  rejecting  it.  Had  his  heart 
even  been  disengaged.  Lady  Euphrasia  could  never  have  been 
his  choice.  If  Amanda  in  reality  proved  as  amiable  as  he  had 
once  reason  to  believe  her,  he  considered  himself  bound,  by 
every  tie  of  honor  as  well  as  love,  to  fulfil  the  engagement  he 
had  entered  into  with  her.  He  resolved,  however,  to  resist 
every  plea  of  tenderness  in  her  favor,  except  he  was  thorough- 
ly convinced  she  still  deserved  it.  He  went  to  Lastle  Carberry 
purposely  to  make  a display  of  indifference,  a d prevent  any 
ideas  being  entertained  of  Ins  having  followed  her  to  Ireland. 
He  deemed  himself  justifiable  in  touching  her  sensibility  (if, 
indeed,  she  possessed  any  for  him)  by  an  appearance  of  cold- 
ness and  inattention  ; but  determined,  after  a little  retaliation 
of  this  kind  on  her,  for  the  pain  she  had  made  him  endure,  to 
come  to  an  explanation,  and  be  guided  by  its  result  relative  to 
his  conduct  in  future  to  her. 


THE  CHILDREN-  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


t70 

The  character  of  a perfect  stranger  was  the  one  he  was 
support  throughout  the  evening ; but  her  loveliness,  and  th^ 
gallantry  of  Sir  Charles  Bingley,  tempted  him  a thousand  timei 
to  break  through  the  restraint  he  had  imposed  on  himself. 

The  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia  were  nPt  the  only 
persons  displeased  by  the  charms  of  Amanda.  The  Miss  Kil- 
corbans  saw,  with  evident  mortification,  the  admiration  she  ex- 
cited, which  they  had  flattered  themselves  with  chiefly  engross- 
ing ; their  disappointment  was  doubly  severe,  after  the  pain, 
trouble,  and  expense  they  had  undergone  in  ornamenting  theii 
persons  j after  the  suggestions  of  their  vanity,  and  the  flatter- 
ing encomiums  of  their  mamma,  who  presided  herself  at  their 
toilet,  every  moment  exclaiming,  Well,,  well,  heaven  help  the 
men  to-night,  girls  ! ’’ 

They  fluttered  across  the  room  to  Amanda,  sweeping  at 
least  two  yards  of  painted  tiffany  after  them  ; assured  her  they 
were  extremely  glad  to  see  her,  but  were  afraid  she  was  unwell, 
as  she  never  looked  so  ill.  Amanda  assured  them  she  was 
conscious  of  no  indisposition,  and  the  harmony  of  her  features 
remained  undisturbed.  Miss  Kilcorban,  in  a half  whisper,  de- 
clared the  marchioness  had  never  smiled  since  she  had  entered 
the  room,  and  feared  her  mamma  had  committed  a great  mis- 
take in  inviting  them  together.  The  rudeness  of  this  speech 
shocked  Amanda.  An  indignant  swell  heaved  her  bosom,  and 
she  was  about  replying  to  it  as  it  deserved,  when  Miss  Alicia 
stopped  her  by  protesting  she  believed  Lord  Mortimer  dying 
for  Lady  Euphrasia.  Amanda  involuntarily  raised  her  eyes  at 
this  speech  ; but,  instead  of  Lord  Mortimer,  beheld  Sir  Charles 
Bingley,  who  was  standing  behind  the  young  ladies.  “ Am  I 
pardonable,’'  cried  he,  smiling,  for  disturbing  so  charming  a 
trio  ? but  a soldier  is  taught  never  to  neglect  a good  opportu- 
nity : and  one  so  propitious  as  the  present  for  the  wish  of  my 
heart  might  not  again  offer.”  The  Miss  Kilcorbans  bridled  up 
at  this  speech  ; plied  their  fans  and  smiled  most  graciously 
on  him,  certainly  concluding  he  meant  to  engage  one  or  other 
for  the  first  set.  Passing  gently  between  them,  he  bowed  grace- 
fully to  Amanda,  and  requested  the  honor  of  her  hand.  Slie 
gave  an  assenting  smile,  and  he  seated  himself  beside  her  till 
the  dancing  commenced.  The  sisters  cast  a malignant  glance 
over  them,  and  swam  off  with  a contemptuous  indifference. 

Lady  Euphrasia  had  expected  Sir  Charles  and  Lord 
Mortimer  would  have  been  competitors  for  her  hand,  and  was 
infinitely  provoked  by  the  desertion  of  the  former  to  her  lovely 
cousin.  He  was  a fasliionable  and  animated  young  man,  whom 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


X71 

she  had  often  honored  with  her  notice  in  England,  and  wished 
to  enlist  in  the  train  of  her  supposed  adorers.  Lord  Mortimer 
could  scarcely  restore  her  good-humor  by  engaging  her.  Almost 
immediately  after  him,  young  Kilcorban  advanced  for  the  same 
purpose,  and  Lord  Mortimer  sincerely  regretted  he  had  been 
iDeforehand  \vith  him.  The  little  fop  was  quite  chagrined  ar 
finding  her  ladyship  engaged  ; but  entreated  the  next  set  he 
might  have  the  supreme  honor  and  ecstatic  felicity  of  her  hand. 
This,  with  the  most  impertinent  affectation,  she  promised,  if 
able  to  endure  the  fatigue  of  another  dance. 

Amanda  was  next  couple  to  Lady  Euphrasia,  and  endeavored 
therefore  to  calm  her  spirits,  which  the  rudeness  of  M«iss  Kil- 
corban had  discomposed,  and  attend  to  the  lively  conversation 
of  Sir  Charles,  who  ‘was  extremely  pleasing  and  entertaining. 
Lord  Mortimer  watched  them  with  jealous  attention.  His 
wandering  glances  were  soon  noticed  by  Lady  Euphrasia,  and 
her  frowns  and  sarcastic  speeches  evinced  her  displeasure  at 
them.  He  tried  to  recollect  himself,  and  act  as  politeness 
required.  She,  not  satisfied  with  fixing  his  attention,  endeavored 
to  attract  Sir  Charles’s.  She  spoke  to  him  across  Amanda  ; 
but  all  her  efforts  were  here  ineffectual.  He  spoke  and  laughed 
with  her  ladyship,  but  his  eyes  could  not  be  withdrawn  from  the 
angelic  countenance  of  his  partner.  Amanda’s  hand  trembled 
as,  in  turning,  she  presented  it  to  Lord  Mortimer;  but,  though 
he  extended  his,  he  did  not  touch  it.  There  was  a slight  in 
this  which  pierced  Amanda’s  heart.  She  sighed,  unconscious 
of  doing  so  herself.  Not  so  Sir  Charles.  He  asked  her, 
smiling,  to  where,  or  whom,  that  sigh  was  wafted.  This  made 
Amanda  recall  her  wandering  thoughts.  She  assumed  an  air 
of  sprightliness,  and  went  down  the  dance  with  much  animation. 
When  finished.  Sir  Charles  led  her  to  a seat  near  the  one  Lady 
Euphrasia  and  Lord  Mortimer  occupied.  She  saw  the  eyes  of 
his  lordship  often  directed  towards  her,  and  her  heart  fluttered 
at  the  pleasing  probability  of  being  asked  to  dance  by  him. 
Sir  Charles  regretted  that  the  old-fashioned  custom  of  not 
changing  partners  was  over,  and  declared  he  could  not  leave 
her  till  she  had  promised  him  her  hand  for  the  third  set.  This 
she  could  not  refuse,  and  he  left  her  with  reluctance,  as  the 
gentlemen  were  again  standing  up,  to  seek  a partner.  At  the 
same  moment  Lord  IMortimer  quitted  Lady  Euphrasia.  Oh  1 
how  the  bosom  of  Amanda  throbbed  when  she  saw  him  ap* 
proach  and  look  at  her.  He  paused.  A faintishness  came 
over  her.  -He  cast  another  glance  on  her,  and  passed  on.  Her 
eye  followed  him  and  she  saw  him  take  out  Miss  Kilcorbaa. 


17 j THE  CHILDREN  OE  7Y/E  ABBEY.  ' 

This,  indeed,  was  a disappointment  Propriety,  she  thought^ 
demanded  his  dancing  the  first  set  with  Lady  Euphrasia,  but,  if 
not  totally  indifferent,  surely  he^would  not  have  neglected  en- 
gaging her  for  the  second.  Yes, said  she  to  herself,  “he 
has  totally  forgotten  me.  Lady  Euphrasia  is  now  the  object, 
and  he  only  pays  attention  to  those  who  can  contribute  to  her 
amusement.”  Several  gentlemen  endeavored  to  prevail  on  her 
to  dance,  but  she  pleaded  fatigue,  and  sat  solitary  on  a window, 
apparently  regarding  the  gay  assembly,  but  in  reality  too  much 
engrossed  by  painful  thoughts  to  do  so.  The  woods,  silvered 
by  the  beams  of  the  moon,  recalled  the  venerable  shades  of 
Tudor  Hall  to  memory,  where  she  had  so  often  rambled  by  the 
same  pale  beams,  and  heard  vows  of  unchangeable  regard- 
vows  registered  in  her  heart,  yet  now  without  the  hope  of 
having  them  fulfilled.  The  dancing  over,  the  company  repaired 
‘to  another  room  for  refreshments.  Amanda,  absorbed  in  thought^ 
heeded  not  their  almost  total  desertion,  till  young  Kilcorban, 
capering  up  to  her,  declared  she  looked  as  lonesome  as  a 
hermit  in  his  cell,  and,  laughing  in  her  face,  turned  off  with  a 
careless  impertinence.  He  had  not  noticed  her  before  that 
night.  He  was  indeed  one  of  those  little  fluttering  insects  who 
bask  in  the  rays  of  fortune,  and  court  alone  her  favorites.  Elated 
by  an  acquaintaince  with  the  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia, 
he  particularly  neglected  Amanda,  not  only  from  deeming  them 
more  worthy  of  his  attention,  but  from  perceiving  he  could 
take  no  steps  more  certain  of  gaining  their  favor.  His  words 
made  Amanda  sensible  of  the  singularity  of  her  situation.  She 
arose  immediately,  and  went  to  the  other  room.  Every  seat 
was  already  occupied.  Near  the  door  sat  Lady  Euphrasia  and 
the  Miss  Kilcorbans.  Lord  Mortimer  leaned  on  the  back  of 
her  ladyship’s  chair,  and  young  Kilcorban  occupied  one  by 
her  side,  which  he  never  attempted  offering  to  Amanda.  She 
stood,  therefore,  most  unpleasantly  by  the  door,  and  was  exceed- 
ingly confused  at  hearing  a great  many,  in  a whispering  way, 
remarking  the  strangeness  of  her  not  being,  noticed  by  so  near 
a relation  as  the  Marchioness  of  Roslin.  A general  titter  at 
her  situation  prevailed  among  Lady  Euphrasia’s  party.  Lord 
Mortimer  excepted.  “ Upon  my  word,”  said  young  Kilcorban, 
looking  at  Amanda,  “ some  ladies  study  attitudes  which  would 
be  as  well  let  alone.”  “For  the  study  of  propriety,”  replied 
her  ladyship,  who  appeared  to  have  unbended  from  her  haugh- 
tiness, “ she  would  do  admirably  for  the  figure  of  Hope.”  “ If 
she  had  but  an  anchor  to  recline  on,”  rejoined  he.  “ Yes,” 
answered  her  ladyships  with  her  floating  locks  and  die-away 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


i73 


glances.”  ‘‘Or  else,  Patience  on  a monument,”  cried  he. 
“Only  she  has  no  grief  to  smile  at,”  returned  Lady  Euphrasia. 
“Pardon  me  there,”  said  he;  “she  has  the  grief — not,  indeed, 
that  I believe  she  would  smile  at  it — of  being  totally  eclipsed 
by  your  ladyship.”  “ Or,  what  do  you  think,”  cried  Lord 
Mortimer,  whose  eyes  sparkled  with  indignation  during  this 
dialogue,  “ of  likening  her  to  Wisdom,  pitying  the  follies  of, 
human  kind,  and  smiling  to  see  the  shafts  of  malice  recoiling 
from  the  bosom  of  innocence  and  modesty,  v/ith  contempt,  on 
those  who  levelled  them  at  it  ? ” 

Amanda  heard  not  these  words,  which  were  delivered  in 
rather  a low  voice.  Her  heart  swelled  with  indignation  at  the 
impertinence  directed  to  her,  and  she  would  have  quitted  the 
room  but  that  the  passage  was  too  much  crowded  for  her  to  pass. 
Sir  Charles  Bingley,  occupied  in  attending  the  young  lady  with 
whom  he  had  danced,  observed  not  Amanda  till  the  moment. 
He  instantly  flew  to  her.  “ Alone — and  standing ! ” said  he  ; 
“ why  did  I not  see  you  before  ? — you  look  fatigued.”  She  was 
pale  with  emotion.  “ Kilcorban,”  continued  he,  “ I must  sup- 
pose you  did  not  see  Miss  Fitzalan,  or  your  seat  would  not  have 
been  kept.”  Then  catching  him  by  the  arm,  he  raised  him 
nimbly  from  his  chair,  and  directly  carried  it  to  Amanda ; and 
having  procured  her  refreshments,  seated  himself  at  her  feet, 
exclaiming,  “ this  is  my  throne,  let  kings  come  bov/  to  it.”  Her 
lovely  and  unaffected  graces  had  excited  Sir  Charles’s  admira- 
tion ; but  it  was  the  neglect  with  which  he  saw  her  treated,  dif- 
fused such  a soothing  tenderness  through  his  manner  as  he  now 
displayed.  It  hurt  his  sensibility,  and  had  she  even  been  plain 
in  her  appearance,  would  have  rendered  her  the  peculiar  object 
of  his  attention.  He  detested  the  marchioness  and  her  daugh- 
ter for  their  rancorous  envy,  as  much  as  he  despised  the  Kil- 
corbans  for  their  mean  insolence.  The  marchioness  told  him 
a long  tale  of  the  shocking  conduct  of  Amanda’s  parents,  whose 
ill  qualities  she  declared  her  looks  announced  her  to  possess, 
and  endeavored  to  depreciate  her  in  his  favor ; but  that  was 
impossible. 

“ Lord  ! ” said  Lady  Euphrasia,  rising  as  she  spoke,  “ let 
me  pass  ; this  scene  is  sickening.”  Lord  Mortimer  remained 
behind  her.  He  loitered  about  the  room,  and  his  looks  were 
often  directed  towards  Amanda.  Her  hopes  began  to  revive. 
The  lustre  rekindled  in  her  eyes,  and  a soft  blush  again  stole 
over  her  cheek.  Though  engaged  to  Sir  Charles,  she  felt  she 
should  be  pleased  to  have  Lord  Mortimer  make  an  overture  for 
her  hand.  The  company  were  now  returning  to  the  ball-room^ 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


174 

and  Sir  Charles  took  her  hand  to  lead  her  after  them.  At  that 
moment  Lord  Mortimer  approached.  Amanda  paused  as  if  to 
adjust  some  part  of  her  dress.  He  passed  on  to  a very  beauti- 
ful girl,  whom  he  immediately  engaged,  and  led  from  the  room. 
She  followed  them  with  her  eyes,  and  continued  without  moving, 
till  the  fervent  pressure  Sir  Charles  gave  her  hand,  restored  hex 
to  recollection. 

When  the  set  with  him  was  finished,  she  would  have  left  the 
liouse  directly,  had  her  servant  been  there  ; but  after  putting 
up  the  horses,  he  had  returned  to  Castle  Carberry,  and  she  did 
not  expect  him  till  a very  late  hour.  She  declared  her  resolu- 
tion of  dancing  no  more,  and  Sir  Charles  having  avowed  the 
same,  they  repaired  to  the  card-room,  as  the  least  crowded  place 
they  could  find.  Lady  Greystock  was  playing  at  the  table,  with 
the  marquis  and  marchioness.  She  beckoned  Amanda  to  her, 
and  having  had  no  opportunity  of  speaking  before,  expressed 
her  pleasure  at  then  seeing  her.  The  marquis  examined 
her  ^hrough  his  spectacles.  The  marchioness  frowned,  and 
declared,  “she  would  take  care  in  future,  to  avoid  parties 
subject  to  such  disagreeable  intruders.’’  This  speech  was  too 
pointed  not  to  be  remarked.  Amanda  wished  to  appear  undis- 
turbed, but  her  emotions  grew  too  powerful  to  be  suppressed, 
and  she  was  obliged  to  move  hastily  from  the  table.  Sir  Charles 
followed  her.  “ Cursed  malignity,”  cried  he,  endeavoring  to 
screen  her  from  observation,  while  tears  trickled  down  her  cheeks ; 
“ but,  my  dear  Miss  Fitzalan,  was  your  beauty  and  merit  less 
conspicuous,  you  would  have  escaped  it ; ’tis  the  vice  of  little 
minds  to  hate  that  excellence  they  cannot  reach.”  “ It  is  cruel, 
it  is  shocking,”  said  Amanda,  “ to  suffer  enmity  to  outlive  the 
object  who  excited  it,  and  to  hate  the  offspring  on  account  of 
the  parent — the  original  of  this  picture,”  and  she  looked  at  her 
mother’s,  “merited  not  such  conduct.”  Sir  Charles  gazed  on 
it ; — it  was  wet  with  the  tears  of  Amanda.  He  wiped  them 
off,  and  pressing  the  handkerchief  to  his  lips,  put  it  in  his 
bosom. 

At  this  instant  Lord  Mortimer  appeared.  Pie  had,  indeed, 
been  for  some  time  an  unnoticed  observer  of  the  progress  of  this 
tete-d-tefe.  As  soon  as  he  perceived  he  had  attracted  their  re- 
gard, he  quitted  the  room. 

“ His  lordship  is  like  a troubled  spirit  to-night,  wandering  to 
and  fro,”  said  Sir  Charles  ; “ I really  believe  everything  is  not 
right  between  him  and  Lady  Euphrasia.”  “ Something,  then,” 
^ried  Amanda,  “ is  in  agitation  between  him  and  her  ladyship  ? 

^ So  says  the  world,”  replied  Sir  Charles,  “ but  I do  not  always 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBE  Y. 


I7S 


give  implicit  credit  to  its  reports.  I have  known  Lord  Mortimer 
this  long  time  ; and  from  my  knowledge  of  him,  should  never 
have  supposed  Lady  Euphrasia  Sutherland  a woman  capable  of 
pleasing  him  ; nay,  to  give  my  real  opinion,  I think  him  quite 
uninterested  about  her  ladyship.  I will  not  say  so  much  as  to 
all  the  other  females  present.  I really  imagined  several  times 
to-night,  from  his  glances  to  you,  he  was  on  the  point  of  request- 
ing an  introduction,  which  would  not  have  pleased  me  perfectly. 
Mortimer  possesses  more  graces  than  those  which  merely  meet 
the  eye,  and  is  a rival  I should  by  no  means  like  to  have.’’ 

Amanda,  confused  by  this  discourse,  endeavored  to  change 
It,  and  at  last  succeeded.  They  conversed  pleasantly  together 
on  different  subjects,  till  they  went  to  supper,  when  Sir  Charles 
still  continued  his  attention.  Lord  Mortimer  was,  or  at  least 
appeared  to  be,  entirely  engrossed  with  Lady  Euphrasia,  who 
from  time  to  time  tittered  with  the  Miss  Kilcorbans,  and  looked 
satirically  at  Amanda.  On  quitting  the  supper-room,  she  found 
her  servant  in  the  hall,  and  immediately  desired  him  to  have  the 
carriage  drawn  up.  Sir  Charles,  who  held  her  hand,  requested 
her  to  stay  a little  longer,  yet  acknowledged  it  was  self  alone 
which  dictated  the  request,  as  he  knew  she  would  not  promote 
her  own  pleasure  by  complying  with  it.  As  he  handed  her 
into  the  carriage,  he  told  her  he  should  soon  follow  herexamp]'=* 
in  retiring,  as  the  scene,  so  lately  delightful,  in  losing  her,  wouid 
lose  all  its  charms.  He  entreated,  and  obtained  permission,  to 
wait  on  her  the  next  morning. 

How  different  was  now  the  appearance  of  Amanda,  to  what 
it  had  been  at  her  departure  from  Castle  Carberry ! Pale, 
trembling,  and  languid,  her  father  received  her  into  his  arms — ' 
for,  till  she  returned,  he  could  not  think  of  going  to  rest — and 
instantly  guessed  the  cause  of  her  dejection.  His  heart  mourned 

the  pangs  inflicted  on  his  child’s.  When  she  beheld  him 
gazing  on  her  with  mingled  woe  and  tenderness,  she  tried  to 
recruit  her  spirits ; and  after  relating  a few  particulars  of  the 
ball,  answered  the  minute  inquiries  he  made  relative  to  the  con- 
duct of  the  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia.  He  appeared 
unutterably  affected  on  hearing  it.  “ Merciful  power,”  ex- 
claimed he,  “ what  dispositions  ! But  you  are  too  lovely,  too 
like  your  mother,  my  Amanda,  in  every  perfection,  to  escape 
their  malice.  Oh  ! may  it  never  injure  you  as  it  did  her.  May 
that  Providence,  whose  protection  I daily  implore  for  the  sweet 
child  of  my  love,  the  source  of  earthly  comfort,  render  every 
wish,  every  scheme  which  may  be  formed  against  her,  abortive ; 
and  oh ! may  it  yet  bless  me  with  the  sight  of  her  happiness.” 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


176 

Amanda  retired  to  her  chamber,  inexpressibly  affected  by 
the  language  of  her  father.  “Yes,’’  cried  she,  her  heart  swell- 
ing with  pity  and  gratitude  to  him,  “ my  sorrow  in  future  shall 
be  concealed,  to  avoid  exciting  his.  The  pain  inflicted  by  thy 
inconstancy,  Mortimer,  shall  be  hid  within  the  recesses  of  my 
heart,  and  never  shall  the  peace  of  my  father  be  disturbed  by 
knowing  the  loss  of  mine.” 

The  gray  dawn  was  now  beginning  to  advance,  but  Amanda 
had  no  inclination  for  repose.  As  she  stood  at  the  window, 
she  heard  the  solemn  stillness  of  the  scene  frequently  inter- 
rupted by  the  distant  noise  of  carriages,  carrying  home  the  weary 
sons  and  daughters  of  dissipation.  “ But  a few  hours  ago,” 
said  she,  “ and  how  gay,  how  animated  was  my  soul ; how  dull, 
how  cheerless  now  ! Oh  1 Mortimer,  but  a few  hours  ago,  and 
I believed  myself  the  beloved  of  thine  heart,  but  the  flattering 
illusion  IS  now  over,  and  I no  longer  shall  hope,  or  thou  deceive.” 
She  changed  her  clothes,  and,  flinging  herself  on  the  bed,  from 
mere  fatigue,  at  length  sunk  into  a slumber. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

“ Love  reigns  a very  tyrant  In  my  heart, 

Attended  on  his  throne  by  all  his  guard 

Of  furious  wishes,  fears,  and  nice  suspicions. — Otway. 


The  next  morning  brought  Sir  Charles  Bingley  to  Castle 
Carberry.  Fitzalan  was  out,  but  Amanda  received  him  in  her 
dressing-room.  He  told  her,  with  evident  concern,  he  was  on 
the  point  of  setting  off  for  the  metropolis,  to  embark  from 
thence  immediately  for  England,  having  received  letters  that 
morning,  which  recalled  him  there.  He  regretted  that  their 
intimacy,  or  rather  friendship,  as  with  insinuating  softness  he 
entreated  permission  to  call  it,  was  interrupted  at  its  very  com- 
mencement— declared  it  gave  him  more  pain  than  she  could 
imagine,  or  he  express — and  that  his  return  to  Ireland  would 
be  expedited,  for  the  purpose  of  renewing  it,  and  requested  he 
might  be  flattered  with  an  assurance  of  not  being  totally  for- 
gotten during  his  absence.  Amanda  answered  him  as  if  she 
supposed  mere  politeness  had  dictated  the  request.  Her 
father,  she  said,  she  was  sure,  would  be  happy  to  see  him,  if 
he  returned  again  to  their  neighborhood.  At  his  entrance,  he 


71IE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


177 


said  he  could  stay  but  a few  minutes,  yet  he  remained  about  two 
hours,  and  when  he  arose  to  depart,  declared  he  had  reason  to 
think  the  castle  an  enchanted  one.  He  found  it  difficult  to 
get  from  it ; “yet,  unlike  the  knights  of  old,’’  continued  he,  “I 
wish  not  to  break  the  spell  which  detained  me  in  it.” 

Day  after  day  elapsed,  and  no  Lord  Mortimer  appeared. 
Amanda,  indeed,  heard  frequently  of  him,  and  always  as  the* 
admirer  of  Lady  Euphrasia.  Frequently,  too,  she  heard  about 
the  family  at  Ulster  Lodge,  their  superb  entertainments,  and 
those  given  in  the  neighborhood  to  them.  The  Kilcorbans 
seemed  to  have  given  her  up  entirely.  Lady  Greystock  was 
the  only  one  of  the  family  who  continued  to  pay  her  any  atten- 
tion. She  called  once  or  twice  at  Castle  Carberry  to  see 
whether  her  apron  was  finished,  and  tell  all  the  news  she  had 
picked  up,  to  Amanda.  The  resolution  which  Amanda  had 
formed  of  concealing  her  melancholy  from  her  father,  she  sup- 
ported tolerably  well,  but  she  only  indulged  it  more  freely  in 
solitude.  The  idea  of  Lord  Mortimer’s  union  with  Lady  Eu- 
phrasia haunted  her  imagination  and  embittered  every  moment. 
“ Yes,”  she  would  exclaim  (as  she  wandered  through  the  gar-- 
den,  which  had  been  converted  from  a rude  wilderness  into  a 
scene  of  beauty  by  her  superintending  care),  “ I have  planted 
flowers,  but  another  shall  enjoy  their  sweets.  I have  planted 
roses  for  Mortimer  to  strew  in  the  path  of  Lady  Euphrasia ; — • 

I have  adorned  the  landscape,  and  she  shall  enjoy  its  beauty ! ” 

About  three  weeks  after  the  ball,  as  she  sat  at  work  one 
morning  in  the  dressing-room,  beguiling  her  thoughts  with  a 
little  plaintive  song,  she  heard  the  door  softly  open  behind 
her : she  supposed  it  to  be  Ellen ; but  not  finding  any  one  ad- 
vance, turned  round  and  perceived  not  Ellen  indeed,  but  Lord 
Mortimer  himself.  She  started  from  her  chair : — the  work 
dropped  from  her  hands,  and  she  had  neither  power  to  speak 
or  move, 

“ I fear  I have  surprised  and  alarmed  you,”  said  Lord  Mor- 
timer. ‘‘  I ask  pardon  for  my  intrusion,  but  I was  informed  I 
bhould  find  Mr.  Fitzalan  here.” 

“ He  is  in  the  study,  I believe,  my  lord,”  replied  Amanda, 
coolly,  s:::d  with  restored  composure.  “ I will  go  and  inform 
him  your  lordship  wishes  to  see  him.” 

“ No,”  exclaimed  he,  “ I will  not  suffer  you  to  have  so  much 
trouble : my  business  is  not  so  urgent  as  to  require  my  seeing 
him  immediately.”  He  reseated  Amanda,  and  drew  a chair 
near  her. 

She  pretended  to  be  busy  with  her  work,  whilst  the  eyes  of 


lyS  the  children  OF  THE  ABBEY.  ^ 

Lord  Mortimer  were  cast  round  the  room,  as  if  viewing  well 
known  objects,  which  at  once  pleased  and  pained  his  sensi 
bility,  by  awakening  the  memory  of  past  delightful  days 
This  room,’^  said  he,  softly  sighing,  “ I well  remember ; L 
was  the  favorite  retirement  of  one  of  the  most  amiable  oi 
women.” 

So  I have  heard,”  replied  Amanda,  “ the  virtues  of  Lady 
Cherbury  are  remembered  with  the  truest  gratitude  by  many  in 
the  vicinity  of  the  castle.” 

I think,”  cried  Lord  Mortimer,  gazing  upon  Amanda  with 
the  softest  tenderness,  ‘^the  apartment  is  still  occupied  by  a 
kindred  spirit.” 

Amanda’s  eyes  were  instantly  bent  on  the  ground,  and  a 
gentle  sigh  heaved  her  bosom  ; but  it  was  rather  the  sigh  of 
regret  than  pleasure  ; with  such  an  accent  as  this  Lord  Morti- 
mer was  wont  to  address  her  at  Tudor  Hall,  but  she  had  now 
reason  to  think  it  only  assumed,  for  the  purpose  of  discovering 
whether  she  yet  retained  any  sensibility  for  him.  Had  he  not 
treated  her  with  the  most  pointed  neglect  ? was  he  not  the  de- 
clared admirer  of  Lady  Euphrasia  ? had  he  not  confessed,  on 
entering  the  room,  he  came  to  seek  not  her,  but  her  father? 
These  ideas  rushing  through  her  mind,  determined  her  to  con- 
tinue no  longer  with  him  ; delicacy,  as  well  as  pride,  urged  her 
to  this,  for  she  feared,  if  she  longer  listened  to  his  insinuating 
language,  it  might  lead  her  to  betray  the  feelings  of  her  heart ; 
she  therefore  arose,  and  said  she  would  acquaint  her  father  his 
lordship  waited  for  him. 

‘‘  Cold,  insensible  Amanda,”  cried  he,  snatching  her  hand, 
to  iDrevent  her  departing,  ‘‘  is  it  thus  you  leave  me  ? when  we 
parted  in  Wales,  I could  not  have  believed  we  should  ever  have 
had  such  a meeting  as  this.” 

Perhaps  not,  my  lord,”  replied  she,  somewhat  haughtily^ 
but  we  have  both  thought  more  prudently  since  that  period.” 

‘‘  Then  why,/’  said  he,  “ did  not  prudence  teach  you  to  shun 
a conduct  which  could  create  suspicion  ? ” 

“ Suspicion,  my  lord  1 ” repeated  Amanda,  with  a kind  of 
horror  in  her  look. 

‘‘Pardon  me,”  cried  he,  “the  word  is  disagreeable;  but. 
Miss  Fitzalan,  when  you  reflect  on  the  manner  in  which  you 
have  acted  to  me  ; — your  precipitate,  your  clandestine  depart- 
ure, at  the  very  period  when  a mutual  acknowledgment  of  re- 
ciprocal feelings  should  have  been  attended  with  the  most  ex- 
plicit  candor  on  both  sides,  you  cannot  wonder  at  unpleasant 
conjectures  and  tormenting  doubts  obtruding  on  my  mind.” 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


179 

**15  It  possible,  my  lord,”  said  Amanda,  ‘‘you  never  con- 
ceived the  reason  of  my  departure  ? Is  it  possible  reflection 
never  pointed  it  out  ? ” 

“ Never,  I solemnly  assure  you  ; nor  shall  I be  happy  till  I 
know  it.”  He  paused,  as  if  for  a reply ; but  Amanda,  agitated 
by  his  words,  had  not  power  to  speak.  Whilst  he  stood  silent, 
trembling,  and  apparently  embarrassed,  she  heard  her  father^s 
voice,  as  he  ascended  the  stairs.  This  instantly  restored  hers. 
‘‘  I must  go,  my  lord,”  cried  she,  starting,  and  struggling  to 
withdraw  her  hand.  “ Promise  then  to  meet  me,”  he  said, 
“ this  evening  at  St.  Catherine’s,  by  seven,  or  I wiH  not  let  you 
go.  My  soul  will  be  in  tortures  till  I have  your  actions  ex- 
plained.” “I  do  promise,”  said  Amanda.  Lord  Mortimer 
released  her,  and  she  retired  into  her  chamber  just  time  enough 
to  avoid  her  father. 

Again  her  hopes  began  to  revive.  Again  she  believed  she 
was  not  mistaken  in  supposing  Lord  Mortimer  had  come  into 
Ireland  on  her  account.  His  being  mentioned  as  the  adT;lrei 
of  Lady  Euphrasia,  she  supposed  owing  to  his  being  a resident 
in  the  house  with  her.  About  herself,  had  he  been  indifferent, 
he  never  could  have  betrayed  such  emotions.  His  looks,  as 
well  as  language,  expressed  the  feelings  of  a heart  tenderly  at- 
tached and  truly  distressed.  Lest  any  circumstance  had  hap- 
pened, which  would  prevent  a renewal  of  that  attachment,  she 
felt  as  much  impatience  as  he  manifested,  to  give  the  desired 
explanation  of  her  conduct. 

His  lordship  was  scarcely  gone,  ere  Lady  Greystock  made 
her  appearance.  Amanda  supposed,  as  usual,  she  only  came 
to  pay  a flying  visit : how  great  then  was  her  mortification  and 
surprise,  when  her  ladyship  told  her  she  was  come  to  spend  the 
day  quite  in  the  family  way  with  her,  as  the  ladies  of  Grange- 
ville  were  so  busy  preparing  for  a splendid  entertainment  the^ 
were  to  be  at  the  ensuing  day,  that  they  had  excluded  all  vis* 
itors,  and  rendered  the  house  quite  disagreeable. 

Amanda  endeavored  to  appear  pleased,  but  to  converse  sh 
found  almost  impossible,  her  thoughts  were  so  engrossed  by  a 
absent  object.  Happily  her  ladyship  was  so  very  loquaciou 
herself,  as  at  all  times  to  require  a listener  more  than  a speaker 
She  was,  therefore,  well  satisfied  with  the  taciturnity  of  her  fair 
companion.  Amanda  tried  to  derive  some  comfort  from  the 
hope  that  her  ladyship  would  depart  early  in  the  evening,  to 
which  she  flattered  herself  she  would  be  induced  by  the  idea  of 
a comfortable  whist  party  at  home.  But  six  o’clock  struck,  and 
she  manifested  no  inclination  to  move.  Amanda  was  in  agony. 


I So  the  children  of  the  abbey. 

Her  cheek  was  flushed  with  agitation.  She  rose  and  walked  to 
the  window,  to  conceal  her  emotion,  whilst  her  father  and  Lady 
Greystock  were  conversing.  The  former  at  last  said,  he  had 
some  letters  to  write,  and  begged  her  ladyship  to  excuse  his 
absence  for  a few  minutes.  This  she  most  graciously  promised 
to  do,  and  pulling  out  her  knitting,  requested  Amanda  to  read 
to  her  till  tea-time.  Amanda  took  up  a book,  but  was  so  con- 
fused, she  scarcely  knew  what,  or  how  she  read. 

Softly,  softly,  my  dear  child,’'  at  last  exclaimed  her  lady- 
ship, whose  attention  could  by  no  means  keep  pace  with  the 
rapid  manner  in  which  she  read.  ‘‘  I protest  you  post  on  with 
as  much  expedition  as  my  Lady  Blerner’s  poneys  on  the  circu- 
lar.” Amanda  blushed,  and  began  to  read  slowly ; but  when 
the  clock  struck  seven  her  feelings  could  be  no  longer  repressed. 

Good  Heaven  ! ” cried  she,  letting  the  book  drop  from  her 
hand,  and  starting  from  her  chair,  ‘‘  this  is  too  much.”  Bless 
me  ! my  dear  ! ” said  Lady  Greystock,  staring  at  her,  “ what  is 
the  matter?”  Only  a slight  headache,  madam,”  answered 
Amanda,  continuing  to  walk  about  the  room. 

Her  busy  fancy  represented  Lord  Mortimer,  now  impatiently 
waiting  for  her — thinking  in  every  sound  which  echoed  amon^ 
the  desolate  ruins  of  St.  Catherine’s  he  heard  her  footsteps, 
his  soul  melting  with  tenderness  at  the  idea  of  a perfect  recon- 
ciliation, which  an  unsatisfied  doubt  only  retarded.  What  woulu 
he  infer  from  her  not  keeping  an  appointment  so  ardently  de- 
sired, so  solemnly  promised,  but  that  she  was  unable  to  removo 
that  doubt  to  his  satisfaction.  Perhaps  he  would  not  credit  the 
reason  she  could  assign  for  breaking  her  engagement.  Per- 
haps piqued  at  her  doing  so,  he  would  not  afford  her  an  oppor- 
tunity of  accounting  for  it,  or  the  apparent  mystery  of  her  late 
conduct.  To  retain  his  doubts  would  be  to  lose  his  tenderness, 
and,  at  last,  perhaps,  expel  her  from  his  heart.  She  thought  of 
sending  Ellen  to  acquaint  him  with  the  occasion  of  her  deten- 
tion at  home  \ but  this  idea  existed  but  for  a moment.  An  ap- 
pointment she  concealed  from  her  father  she  could  not  bear  to 
divulge  to  any  other  person  ; it  would  be  a breach  of  duty  and 
delicacy,  she  thought.  “ No,”  said  she  to  herself,  I will  not, 
from  the  thoughtlessness  and  impetuosity  which  lead  so  many 
of  my  sex  astray,  overstep  the  bounds  of  propriety,  and  to  rein- 
state myself  in  the  esteem  of  one  person  lose  that  of  others  ; 
cind,  above  all,  that  of  my  own  heart.  If  Lord  Mortimer  re- 
fuses to  hear  my  justification,  he  will  act  neither  agreeably  to 
candor  or  justice,  and  pride  must  aid  in  repelling  my  regret.” 

You  look  strangely,  indeed,  my  dear,”  said  Lady  Greystock, 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


i8i 


who  was  attentively  watching  her,  whilst  those  ideas  were  rising 
in  her  mind,  Amanda  recollected  the  remarks  which  might  be 
made  on  her  behavior  ; and  apologizing  for  the  manner  in  which 
she  had  acted,  took  her  seat  with  some  degree  of  composure. 
Fitzalan  soon  after  entered  the  room,  and  tea  was  made ; when 
over,  Lady  Greystock  declared  they  were  a snug  party  for  three- 
handed  whist.  Amanda  would  gladly  have  excused  herself  from 
being  of  the  party,  but  politeness  made  her  conceal  her  reluc- 
tance ; but  extreme  dejection  was  noticed  both  by  Fitzalan  and 
her  ladyship.  The  latter  imputed  it  to  regret,  at  not  being  per- 
mitted by  her  father  to  accept  an  invitation  she  had  received 
for  a ball  the  ensuing  evening. 

Don’t  fret  about  it,  my  dear  creature,”  said  she,  laying 
down  her  cards,  to  administer  the  consolation  she  supposed 
Amanda  required ; “ ’tis  not  by  frequenting  balls  and  public 
places  a girl  always  stands  the  best  chance  of  being  provided 
for ; I,  for  my  part,  have  been  married  three  times,  yet  never 
made  a conquest  of  any  one  of  my  husbands  in  a public  place. 
No,  it  was  the  privacy  of  my  life  partly  obtained  for  me  so 
many  proofs  of  good  fortune.”  Fitzalan  and  Amanda  laughed. 
“ I shall  never  be  dissatisfied  with  staying  at  home,”  said  the 
latter,  “ though  without  either  expecting  or  desiring  to  have  my 
retirement  recompensed  as  your  ladyship’s  was.”  “ One  prize 
will  satisfy  you  then,”  .said  Fitzalan.  “ Ah  ! ” cried  Lady  Grey- 
stock,  “ it  is  Lady  Euphrasia  Sutherland  will  obtain  the  capital 
one.  I don’t  know  where  such  another  young  man  as  Lord 
Mortimer  is  to  be  found.”  ‘‘  Then  your  ladyship  supposes,” 
said  Fitzalan,  there  is  some  truth  in  the  reports  circulated, 
relative  to  him  and  Lady  Euphrasia.”  I assure  you  there  is,” 
said  she  \ ‘‘  and  I think  the  connection  will  be  a very  eligible 
one.  Their  births,  their  fortunes,  are  equal.”  But  ah,  thought 
Amanda,  how  unlike  their  dispositions.  ‘‘  I dare  say,”  pro- 
ceeded her  ladyship,  ‘‘  Lady  Euphrasia  will  have  changed  her 
title  before  this  time  next  year.” 

Fitzalan  glanced  at  Amanda  : her  face  was  deadly  pale,  and 
she  put  him  and  Lady  Greystock  out  in  the  game  by  the  errors 
she  committed.  At  last  the  carriage  from  Grangeville  arrived, 
and  broke  up  a party  Amanda  could  not  much  longer  have  sup- 
ported. Her  father  perceived  the  painful  efforts  she  made  to 
conceal  her  distress.  He  pitied  her  from  his  soul,  and,  pre- 
tending to  think  she  was  only  indisposed,  entreated  her  to  re- 
tire to  her  chamber.  Amanda  gladly  complied  with  this 
entreaty,  and  began  to  meditate  on  what  Lady  Greystock  had 
said.  Was  there  not  a probability  of  its  being  true  ? Might 


i82 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


»iot  the  indifference  Lord  Mortimer  had  manifested  on  his  first 
arrival  in  the  neighborhood  have  really  originated  from  a change 
of  affections  ? Might  not  the  tenderness  he  displayed  in  the 
morning  have  been  concerted  with  the  hope  of  its  inducing  hef 
to  gratify  his  curiosity,  by  relating  the  reason  of  her  journey 
from  Wales,  or  please  his  vanity  by  tempting  her  to  give  some 
proof  of  attachment  ? But  she  soon  receded  from  this  idea. 
Lady  Greystock  was  not  infallible  in  her  judgment.  Reports 
of  approaching  nuptials,  Amanda  knew,  had  often  been  raised 
without  any  foundation  for  them.  The  present  report,  relative 
to  Lord  Mortimer  and  Lady  Euphrasia,  might  be  one  of  that 
nature.  She  could  not  believe  him  so  egregiously  vain,  or  so 
deliberately  base,  as  to  counterfeit  tenderness  merely  for  the 
purpose  of  having  his  curiosity  or  vanity  gratified.  She  felt, 
however,  truly  unhappy,  and  could  derive  no  consolation  but 
from  the  hope  that  her  suspense,  at  least,  would  soon  be 
terminated. 

She  passed  a restless  night;  nor  was  her  morning  more 
composed.  She  could  not  settle  to  any  of  her  usual  avocations. 
Every  step  she  heard,  she  started  in  expectation  of  instantly 
seeing  Lord  Mortimer;  but  he  did  not  appear.  After  dinnei 
she  walked  out  alone,  and  took  the  road  to  St.  Catherine’s. 
When  she  reached  the  ruins,  she  felt  fatigued,  and  sat  down 
upon  a flag  in  the  chapel  to  rest  herself.  “ Here,”  said  she, 
pensively  leaning  her  head  upon  her  hand,  Mortimer  waited 
for  me  ; perhaps  with  tender  impatience.  Here,  too,  he  per- 
haps accused  me  of  neglect  or  deceit.”  She  heard  a rustling 
behind  her,  and  turning,  perceived  Sister  Mary. 

“You  are  welcome,  my  dear  soul,”  cried  the  good-natured 
nun,  running  forward,  and  sitting  down  by  her  ; “ but  why  did 
you  not  come  in  to  see  us  ? ” continued  she,  affectionately  kissing 
her.  Amanda  said,  “ such  was  her  intention,  but  feeling  a little 
indisposed,  she  had  remained  in  the  air,  in  hopes  of  growing 
belter.”  “Oh,  Jesu  ! ” cried  the  sister,  you  do  indeed  look  ill, 
I must  go  and  get  you  a cordial  from  our  prioress,  who  is  quite 
a doctress,  I assure  you.” 

Amanda  caught  her  gown  as  she  was  running  away,  and  as- 
sured her  she  was  better. 

“Well,  then,”  said  she,  resuming  her  seat,  “ I must  tell  you 
of  an  odd  thing  which  happened  here  last  night.  I came  out 
to  walk  about  the  ruins  between  the  lights — that  is,  as  one  may 
say,  when  it  is  neither  dark  or  light.  As  the  air  was  cold,  I 
wrapped  my  veil  about  me,  and  had  just  turned  the  cloisters, 
when  I heard  a quick  foot  pacing  after  me.  Well  I.  supposing 


THE  CHILDREN  OE  THE  ABBEY,  183 

it  to  be  one  of  tfie  sisters,  walked  slowly,  that  she  might  easily 
® overtake  me.  But  you  may  guess  my  surprise  when  I was  over- 
taken, not  by  one  of  them  indeed,  but  by  one  of  the  finest  and 
most  iDeautiful  young  men  I ever  beheld.  Lord,  how  he  did  start 
when  he  saw  me,  just  for  all  the  world  as  if  I was  a ghost;  he 
looked  quite  wild,  and  flew  off  muttering  something  to  himself. 
Well,  I thought  all  this  strange,  and  was  making  all  the  haste  1 
could  to  the  convent,  when  he  appeared  again  coming  from 
under  that  broken  arch ; and  he  bowed  and  smiled  so  sweetly, 
and  held  his  hat  in  his  hand  so  respectfully,  whilst  he  begged 
my  pardon  for  the  alarm  he  had  given  me  ; and  then  he  blushed 
and  strove  to  hide  his  confusion  with  his  handkerchief,  while 
he  asked  me  if  I had  seen  here  a young  lady  about  the  ruins 
that  evening,  as  a particular  friend  had  informed  him  she  would 
be  there,  and  desired  him  to  escort  her  home.  ‘ Why,  my  dear 
sir,’  says  I,  ‘ I have  been  about  this  place  the  whole  evening, 
and  there  has  neither  been  man,  woman,  nor  child,  but  you  and 
myself ; so  the  young  lady  changed  her  mind,  and  took  another 
ramble.’  ‘ So  I suppose,’  said  he,  and  he  looked  so  pale,  and 
so  melancholy,  I could  not  help  thinking  it  was  a sweetheart  he 
had  been  seeking  ; so  by  way  of  giving  him  a bit  of  comfort, 
‘ Sir,’  says  I,  ‘ if  you  will  leave  any  marks  of  the  young  lady  you 
were  seeking  with  me,  I will  watch  here  m3^self  a little  longer 
for  her ; and  if  she  comes  I will  tell  her  how  uneasy  you  were 
at  not  finding  her,  and  be  sure  to  dispatch  her  after  you.’  ‘ No, 
he  thanked  me,’  he  said,  ‘ but  it  was  of  very  little  consequence 
hiS  not  meeting  her,  or  indeed  whether  he  ever  met  her  again,’ 
and  went  away.”  Did  he  ? ” said  Amanda.  “ Bless  me  ! ” 
exclaimed  the  nun,  you  are  worse,  instead  of  better.” 

Amanda  acknowledged  she  was,  and  rising,  requested  she 
would  excuse  her  not  paying  her  compliments  that  evening  at 
the  nunnery. 

Sister  Mary  pressed  her  to  drink  tea  with  the  prioress,  or  at 
least  take  some  of  her  excellent  cordial  ; but  Amanda  refused 
both  requests,  and  the  affectionate  nun  saw  her  depart  with 
reluctance. 

Scarcely  had  she  regained  the  road,  ere  a coach  and  six, 
preceded  and  followed  by  a number  of  attendants,  approached 
with  such  quickness  that  she  was  obliged  to  step  aside  to  avoid 
it.  Looking  in  at  the  window  as  it  passed,  she  saw  Lord 
Mortimer  and  Lady  Euphrasia  seated  in  it,  opposite  to  each 
other ; she  saw  they  both  perceived  her,  and  that  Lady 
Euphrasia  laughed,  and  put  her  head  forward  to  stare  imperti- 
nently at  her.  Amanda  was  mortified  that  they  had  sf'cn  her  r 


184  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  ' 

there  was  something  at  that  moment  humiliating  in  the  contrast 
between  their  situation  and  hers — she,  dejected  and  solitary,  * 
they  adorned  and  attended  with  all  the  advantages  of  fortune. 
But  in  the  estimation  of  a liberal  mind,  cried  she,  the  want  of 
such  advantage  can  never  lessen  me — such  a mmd  as  I flatter 
myself  Lord  Mortimer  possesses.  Ah  ! if  he  thinks  as  I do,  he 
would  prefer  a lonely  ramble  in  the  desolate  spot  I have  just 
quitted,  to  all  the  parade  and  magnificence  he  is  about  wit- 
nessing. The  night  passed  heavily  away.  The  idea  of  Lord 
Mortimer’s  devoting  all  his  attention  to  Lady  Euphrasia,  could 
not  be  driven  from  her  mind. 

The  next  morning,  the  first  object  she  saw,  on  going  to  the 
window,  was  a large  frigate  lying  at  anchor  near  the  castle. 
Ellen  entered  her  chamber,  and  sighing  heavily,  as  she  always 
did,  indeed,  at  the  sight  of  a ship,  said,  “ she  wished  it  contained 
ner  wandering  sailor.”  Amanda  indulged  a hope  that  lyord 
Mortimer  would  appear  in  the  course  of  the  day,  but  she  was 
disappointed.  She  retired,  after  tea,  in  the  evening  co  her 
dressing-room,  and  seated  in  the  windoiv,  enjoyed  a crJm  and 
beautiful  scene.  Not  a cloud  concealed  the  bright  aziue  of  the 
firmament;  the  moon  spread  a line  of  silvery  radiance  over  the 
waves,  that  stole  with  a melancholy  murmur  upon  the  shore  ; 
and  the  silence  which  reigned  around  was  only  interrupted  by 
the  faint  noise  of  the  mariners  on  board  the  frigate,  and  their 
evening  drum.  At  last  Amanda  heard  the  paddling  of  oars, 
and  perceived  a large  boat  coming  from  the  ship,  rowed  by 
sailors  in  white  shirts  and  trousers,  their  voices  keeping  time  to 
their  oars.  The  appearance  they  made  was  picturesque,  and 
Amanda  watched  them  till  the  boat  disappeared  among  the 
rocks.  The  supper-bell  soon  after  summoned  her  from  the 
window  ; but  scarcely  had  she  retired  to  her  chamber  for  the 
night,  ere  Ellen,  smiling,  trembling,  and  apparently  overcome 
Vith  joy,  appeared. 

I have  seen  him,”  cried  she,  hastily ; “ oh,  madam,  I have 
seen  poor  Chip  himself,  and  he  is  as  kind  and  as  true-hearted 
as  ever.  I went  this  evening  to  the  village  to  see  old  Norah,  to 
whom  you  sent  the  linen,  for  she  is  a pleasing  kind  of  poty,  and 
does  not  laugh  like  the  rest  at  one  for  their  Welsh  tongue  ; so 
when  I was  returning  home,  and  at  a goot  tistance  from  her 
cabin,  I saw  a great  number  of  men  coming  towards  me,  all 
dressed  in  white.  To  pe  sure,  as  I heerd  a great  teal  apoutthe 
white  poys,  I thought  these  were  nothing  else,  and  I did  so 
quake  and  tremble,  for  there  was  neither  hole,  or  bush,  or  tree 
on  the  spot,  that  would  have  sheltered  one  of  the  little  tiny 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY  1S5 

fairies  of  Penmaenmawr.  Well,  they  came  on,  shouting  and 
laughing,  and  merrier  than  I thought  such  rogues  ought  to  be  , 
and  the  moment  they  espied  me,  they  gathered  round  me,  and 
began  pulling  me  about ; so  I gave  a great  scream,  and  tirectly 
a voice  (Lort,  how  my  heart  jumped  at  it)  cried  out,  ‘that  is 
Ellen ; ^ and  to  pe  sure  poor  Chip  soon  had  me  in  his  arms ; 
and  then  I heard  they  were  sailors  from  the  frigate,  come  to  get 
fresh  provisions  at  the  village  ; so  I turned  pack  with  them,  and 
^hey  had  a great  bowl  of  whiskey  punch,  and  a whole  sight  of 
cakes,  and  Chip  told  me  all  his  adventures ; and  he  was  so  glad 
when  he  heard  I lived  with  you,  pecause  he  said  you  were  a 
^weet,  mild  young  laty,  and  he  was  sure  you  would  sometimes 
/emind  me  of  him  ; and  he  hopes  soon  to  get  his  tischarge,  and 
riien — You  are  to  be  married,’^  said  Amanda,  interpreting 
the  blushes  and  hesitation  of  Ellen.  “Yes,  matam,  and  I as- 
sure you  Chip  is  not  altered  for  the  worse  py  a seafaring  life. 
His  voice,  inteed,  is  a little  of  the  roughest,  but  he  told  m.e 
that  was  owing  to  his  learning  the  poatswain’s  whistle.  Poor 
fellow,  he  sails  to-morrow  night.  The  ship  is  on  the  Irish 
station,  and  they  are  to  coast  it  to  Dublin.” 

“ Elappy  Ellen  ! ” said  Amanda,  as  she  retired  from  her 
chamber,  “ thy  perturbations  and  disquietudes  are  over  ; assured 
of  the  affection  of  ihy  village  swain,  peace  and  cheerfulness 
will  resume  their  empire  in  thy  breast.” 

The  next  evening  at  twilight,  Amanda  went  down  to  the 
beach  with  her  father  to  see  the  fishermen  drawing  their  seine, 
on  shore,  on  which  theiv  hopes,  and  the  comfort  of  their  families 
depended.  Whilst  Fitzalan  conversed  with  them,  Amanda, 
seated  herself  on  a low  rock  to  observe  their  motions.  In  the 
murmur  of  the  waves  there  was  a gentle  melancholy,  in  unison 
with  her  present  feelings.  From  a pensive  meditation,  which 
had  gradually  rendered  her  inattentive  to  the  scene  before  her, 
she  was  suddenly  roused  by  voices  behind  her.  She  started 
from  her  seat,  for  in  one  of  them  she  imagined  she  distinguished 
the  accent  of  Lord  Mortimer.  Nor  was  she  mistaken.  He 
was  descending  a winding  path  near  her,  accompanied  by  a 
naval  officer.  To  pass  without  seeing  her  was  impossible  ; and 
as  he  approached  her,  he  stopped,  apparently  hesitating  whether 
or  not  he  should  address  her.  In  a few  minutes  his  hesitation 
ended,  with  waving  his  handkerchief,  as  if  to  bid  her  adieu, 
vvhilst  he  proceeded  to  a small  boat  which  had  been  for  some 
time  lying  in  a creek  among  the  rocks,  and  which,  on  receiving 
him  and  his  companion,  immediately  rowed  to  the  frigate. 
Amanda  trembled.  Her  heart  beat  violently,  Ellen  had  in* 


i86 


THE  CHILDREN-  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


formed  her  the  frigate  was  to  sail  that  night ; and  what  could 
induce  Lord  Mortimer  to  visit  it  at  such  an  hour,  except  an  in- 
tention of  departing  in  it. 

Uncertainty  is  dreadful.  She  grew  sick  with  anxiety  before 
her  father  returned  to  the  castle.  On  entering  it,  she  immedi- 
ately repaired  to  her  chamber,  and  calling  Ellen  hastily,  de- 
manded if  Chip’s  intelligence  was  true  ? 

“ Alas  ! yes,”  said  Ellen,  weeping  violently  ; ‘‘  and  I know 
the  reason  you  inquire.  You  saw  Lord  Mortimer  going  to  the 
ship.  I saw  him  myself,  as  I stood  on  the  beech  talking  to  Chip, 
who  was  one  of  the  sailors  that  came  in  the  boat  for  his  lortship 
and  the  captain  ; and  to  be  sure  the  sight  left  my  eyes  when  T 
saw  my  lort  departing,  pecause  I knew  he  was  going  away  in 
anger  at  the  treatment  he  supposed  he  received  from  you.” 

“ From  me  ? ” exclaimed  Amanda. 

Oh  ! you  will  never  forgive  me  for  acting  so  padly  as  1 
have  done  by  you,”  sobbed  Ellen  ; put  inteed  the  sight  of  poor 
Chip  drove  everything  from  my  memory  put  himself.  Lasi. 
night,  as  I was  going  to  Norah’s,  I overtook  Lort  Mortimer  on 
the  road,  who  was  walking  quite  sorrowfully,  as  I may  say,  py 
himself ; so  to  pe  sure  I thought  1 could  do  no  less  in  good 
manners  than  drop  him  a curtsey  as  I passed  ; so  up  he  came 
to  me  directly  : ‘ And,  my  good  girl,  how  are  you  1 ’ said  he  ; 
and  he  smiled  so  sweetly,  and  looked  so  handsome  ; and  then 
he  took  my  hand,  and  to  pe  sure  his  hand  was  as  soft  as  any 
velvet.  ‘ And  pray,  Ellen,’  said  he,  ‘ is  Miss  Fitzalan  at 
home,  and  disengaged  ? ’ I told  him  you  was,  and  Cot  knows, 
my  Lort,  said  I,  and  melancholy  enough,  too.  I left  her  in  the 
tressing-room  window,  looking  out  at  the  waves,  and  listening 
to  the  winds.  ‘ Well,  hasten  home,’  cried  he,  ‘ and  tell  her  she 
will  oblige  me  greatly  py  meeting  me  immediately  at  the  rocks 
peyond  the  castle.”  I promised  him  I would,  and  he  put,  nay, 
inteed,  forced  five  guineas  into  my  hand,  and  turned  off  another 
road,  charging  me  not  to  forget ; put  as  I was  so  near  Norah’s, 
I thought  I might  just  step  in  to  see  how  she  did,  and  when  I 
left  her,  I met  poor  Chip,  and  Lort  knows  I am  afraid  he  would 
have  made  me  forget  my  own  tear  father  and  mother.” 

Oh,  Ellen ! ” cried  Amanda,  “ how  could  you  serve  me 
so  t ” ‘‘  Oh,  tear  ! ” said  Ellen,  redoubling  her  tears,  “ I am 

certainly  one  of  the  most  unfortunate  girls  in  the  world  ; put, 
Lort,  no\V,  Miss  Amanda,  why  should  you  be  so  sorrowful ; for 
certain  my  lort  loves  you  too  well  to  pe  always  angry.  There 
is  poor  Chip  now,  though  he  thought  I loved  Parson  i^owel, 
Jie  never  forgot  me.” 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  187 

Ellen’s  efforts  at  consolation  were  not  successful,  and 
Amanda  dismissed  her^  that,  unnoticed  and  unrestrained,  she 
might  indulge  the  tears  which  flowed  at  the  idea  of  a long,  a 
msting  separation,  perhaps,  from  Lord  Mortimer.  Offended, 
justly  offended,  as  she  supposed,  with  her,  the  probability  was 
she  would  be  banished  from  his  thoughts,  or,  if  remembered, 
at  least  without  esteem  or  tenderness  : thus  might  his  heart 
soon  be  qualified  for  making  another  choice.  She  walked  to 
the  window,  and  saw  the  ship  already  under  weigh.  She  saw 
the  white  sails  fluttering  in  the  breeze,  and  heard  the  shouts  of 
the  mariners.  “ Oh,  Mortimer ! ” cried  she,  “ is  it  thus  we 
part  ? is  it  thus  the  expectations  you  raised  in  my  heart  are 
disappointed  ? You  go  hence,  and  deem  Amanda  unworthy  a 
farewell.  You  gaze,  perhaps,  at  this  moment  on  Castle  Car- 
berry,  without  breathing  one  sigh  for  its  inhabitants.  Ah,  had 
you  loved  sincerely,  never  would  the  impulse  of  resentment 
have  conquered  the  emotion  of  tenderness.  No,  Mortimer, 
you  deceived  me,  and  perhaps  yourself,  in  saying  I was  dear  to 
you.  Had  I been  so,  never  could  you  have  acted  in  this 
manner.”  Her  eyes  followed  the  course  of  the  vessel,  till  it 
appeared  like  a speck  in  the  horizon.  ‘‘He  is  gone,”  said  she, 
weeping  afresh,  and  withdrawing  herself  from  the  window  ; “ he 
is  gone,  and  if  ever  I meet  him  again,  it  will  probably  be  as  the 
husband  of  Lady  Euphrasia.” 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


Think’st  thou  I’ll  make  a life  of  jealousy. 

To  follow  still  the  changes  of  the  moon 

With  fresh  surmises?  No  ; to  be  once  in  doubt 

Is  to  be  resolved.  But  yet 

Til  see  before  I doubt : when  I doubt,  prove, 

And  on  the  proof  there  is  no  more  but  this — 

Away  at  once  with  love  or  jealousy.” — Shakspearb. 

Lord  Mortimer  had,  in  reality,  departed  with  sentiments 
very  unfavorable  to  Amanda.  He  had  waited  impatiently  at 
St.  Catherine’s,  in  the  fond  expectation  of  having  all  his  doubts 
removed  by  a candid  explanation  of  the  motives  which  caused 
her  precipitate  journey  from  Wales.  His  soul  sighed  for  a re- 
conciliation: his  tenderness  was  redoubled  by  being  so  long  re- 
strained. The  idea  of  folding  his  beloved  Amanda  to  his 
b(^om,  and  hearing  that  she  deserved  all  the  tenderness  and 


i88 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


sensibility  which  glowed  In  that  bosom  for  her,  gave  him  the 
highest  pleasure  j but  when  the  appointed  hour  passed,  and  no 
Amanda  appeared,  language  cannot  express  his  disappointment. 
Almost  distracted  by  it,  he  ventured  to  inquire  concerning  her 
from  Sister  Mary  ; and,  long  after  the  friendly  nun  had  retired 
to  the  convent,  continued  to  wander  about  the  ruins,  till  the 
shadows  of  night  had  enveloped  every  object  from  his  view. 
“ She  fears  to  come,  then,’’  exclaimed  he,  quitting.the  desolate 
spot,  oppressed  with  the  keenest  anguish ; ‘‘  she  fears  to  come, 
because  she  cannot  satisfy  my  doubts.  I witnessed  her  agita- 
tion, her  embarrassment,  this  morning,  when  I hinted  at  them. 
The  mystery  which  separated  us  will  not  be  explained,  and  it  is 
in  vain  to  think  we  shall  ever  meet,  as  I once  flattered  myself 
we  should.” 

This  thought  seemed  to  strike  at  all  his  hopes.  The  dis- 
tress and  disorder  of  his  mind  was  depicted  on  his  countenance, 
and  escaped  not  the  observation  and  raillery  of  the  marchioness 
and  Lady  Euphrasia ; but  their  raillery  was  in  vain,  and  unan- 
swered by  him  ; he  was  absorbed  in  a train  of  pensive  reflec- 
tions, which  they  had  neither  power  to  remove  or  disturb. 

Most  unwillingly  he  accompanied  them  the  ensuing  day  to 
a splendid  entertainment  given  purposely  for  them  in  the 
neighborhood.  The  unexpected  sight  of  Amanda,  as  she  stood 
on  a little  elevated  bank,  to  avoid  the  carriage,  caused  a sudden 
emotion  of  surprise  and  delight  in  his  bosom.  The  utmost 
powers  of  eloquence  could  not  have  pleaded  her  cause  so  suc- 
cessfully as  her  own  appearance  at  that  minute  did.  The  lan- 
guor of  her  face,  its  mild  and  seraphic  expression,  her  pensive 
attitude,  and  the  timid  modesty  with  which  she  seemed  shrink- 
ing from  observation,  all  touched  the  sensibility  of  Lord  Morti- 
mer, awakened  his  softest  feelings,  revived  his  hopes,  and  made 
him  resolve  to  seek  another  opportunity  of  demanding  an  ex- 
planation from  her.  The  sudden  color  which  flushed  his  cheeks, 
and,  the  sparkling  of  his  eyes,  as  he  looked  from  the  carriage, 
attracted  the  notice  of  his  companions.  They  smiled  mali- 
ciously at  each  other,  and  Lady  Euphrasia  declared,  She 
supposed  the  girl  was  stationed  there  to  try  and  attract  admira- 
tion, which,  perhaps,  her  silly  old  father  had  told  her  she  mer- 
ited— or  else  to  meet  with  adventures.”  Lord  Mortimer  drew 
in  his  head,  and  the  contrast  between  her  ladyship  and  the  fair 
being  he  had  been  looking  at,  never  struck  him  so  forcibly  as 
at  that  moment,  and  lessened  one  as  much  as  it  elevated  the 
other  in  his  estimation. 

He  wandered  near  the  castle  the  next  evening,  in  hopeii^^f 


THE  Ch  HD  REN  OF  THE  ABE  BY. 


189 

meeting  Amanda.  His  disappointment  was  diminished  by  see- 
ing Ellen,  who  he  was  confident,  would  be  faithful  to  the  meS' 
sage  intrusted  to  her.  With  this  confidence  he  hastened  to  the 
rocks,  every  moment  expecting  the  appearance  of  Amanda. 
Her  image,  as  it  appeared  to  him  the  preceding  day,  dwelt  upon 
his  imagination,  and  he  forcibly  felt  how  essential  to  his  peace 
was  a reconciliation  with  her.  An  hour  elapsed,  and  his  tender- 
ness again  began  to  give  wav  to  resentment.  It  was  not  Ellen, 
but  Amanda  he  doubted.  He  traversed  the  beach  in  an  agony 
of  impatience  and  anxiety ; a feverish  heat  pervaded  his  frame, 
and  he  trembled  with  agitation.  At  length  he  heard  the  dis- 
tant sound  of  the  suppei'bell  at  Ulster  Lodge,  which  never  rang 
till  a late  hour.  All  hopes  of  seeing  Amanda  were  now  given 
up,  and  every  intention  of  meeting  her  at  a future  period  relin- 
quished. She  avoided  him  designedly,  it  was  evident.  He 
would  have  cursed  himself  for  betraying  such  anxiety  about  her, 
and  his  wounded  pride  revolted  from  the  idea  of  seeking  an- 
other interview.  “ No  ! Amanda  ! ’’  he  exclaimed,  as  he  passed 
^he  castle,  “you  can  no  longer  have  any  claim  upon  me.  Mys- 
terious appearances  in  the  most  candid  mind  will  raise  suspi- 
cions. In  giving  you  an  opportunity  for  accounting  for  such 
appearances,  I did  all  that  candor,  tenderness,  sensibility,  and 
honor  could  dictate  ; and,  instead  of  again  making  efforts  to 
converse  with  you,  I must  now  make  others,  which,  I trust,  will 
be  more  successful,  entirely  to  .forget  you.” 

The  next  morning  he  accompanied  the  majquis  in  his  barge 
to  the  frigate,  where  he  was  agreeably  surprised  to  find  in  the 
commander  an  old  friend  of  his,  Ca^Dtain  Somerville,  who  re- 
turned to  Ulster  Lodge  with  his  visitors,  and  there,  in  a half 
jesting,  half  serious  manner,  asked  Lord  Mortimer  to  accom- 
pany him  on  his  intended  cruise.  This  his  lordship  instantly 
promised  he  would,  with  pleasure.  He  was  completely  tired 
of  the  Roslin  family,  and  was,  besides,  glad  of  an  opportunity 
of  convincing  Amanda  he  was  not  quite  so  fascinated  to  her  as 
ahe  perhaps  believed,  by  his  quitting  the  neighborhood  ere 
their  departure.  As  he  descended  to  the  boat,  the  sight  of 
Amanda  shook  his  resolution.  She  seemed  destined  to  cross 
his  path,  merely  to  give  him  disquietude.  An  ardent  wish 
.•sprung  in  his  heart  to  address  her,  but  it  was  instantly  sup- 
pressed, by  reflecting  how  premeditately  she  had  avoided  him  ; 
pride,  therefore,  prompted  him  to  pass  her  in  silence  ; yet,  as 
the  boat  receded  from  the  shore,  his  eyes  were  riveted  to  the 
spot  on  which  she  stood,  and  when  he  could  no  longer  see  her 
white  gown  fluttering  in  the  wind,  he  gave  a sigh  to  the  remem: 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


190 

brance  of  the  happy  days  he  had  passed  with  her  at  Tudor 
Hail ; and  another  to  the  idea,  that  such  hours  would  never 
more  be  enjoyed  by  him. 

The  family  at  Ulster  Lodge  were  both  m ortified  and  disap- 
pointed by  his  departure,  though  he,  perceiving  their  displeasure, 
had  endeavored  to  lessen  it,  by  promising  to  wait  their  arrival 
in  Dublin,  and  return  with  them  to  England.  His  departure 
seemed  a tacit  intimation  that  he  was  not  as  much  attached  to 
Lady  Euphrasia  as  they  wished  him  to  be.  A suspicion  of  this 
nabire  had,  indeed,  for  some  time  pervaded  their  minds,  and 
also  diat  his  affections  were  elsewhere  disposed  of : they  had 
reason  to  believ^e  that  the  person  who  possessed  them  dvelt  in 
the  vicinity  of  the  lodge,  from  the  great  alteration  which  took 
place  in  his  manner,  immediately  after  his  arrival  at  it.  In 
hopes  of  discovering  who  this  was,  they  watched  him  criti- 
cally at  all  the  parties  he  frequented  with  them,  but  soon  found 
It  was  not  the  present,  but  the  absent  objects  had  the  power  of 
exciting  emotions  in  him.  At  the  name  of  Amanda  Fitzalan  or 
her  father  they  observed  him  color,  and  frequently  saw  him 
contemplate  Castle  Carberry,  as  if  it  contained  a being  infinitely 
dear  to  him  ; to  Amanda,  therefore,  they  feared  he  was  attached, 
and  supposed  the  attachment  commenced  at  the  Kilcorbans^ 
ball,  where  they  had  noticed  his  impassioned  glances  at  this 
hated,  because  too  lovely  relation.  The  most  unbounded  rage 
took  possession  of  their  souls  ; they  regretted  ever  having  come 
to  Ireland,  where  tiiiey  supposed  Lord  Mortimer  had  first  seen 
Amanda,  as  Lord  Cherbury  had  mentioned  the  children  of 
Fitzalan  being  strangers  to  him  or  his  family.  They  knew  the 
passions  of  Lord  Cherbury  were  impetuous,  and  that  ambition 
was  the  leading  principle  of  his  soul.  Anxious  for  an  alliance 
between  his  family  and  theirs,  they  knew  he  would  ill  brook 
any  obstacle  which  should  be  thrown  in  the  way  of  its  comple- 
tion, and  therefore  resolved,  if  Lord  Mortimer,  at  their  next 
meeting,  appeared  averse  to  the  wishes  of  his  father,  to  acquaint 
the  earl  with  the  occasion  of  his  son’s  disinclination,  and  repre- 
sent Fitzalan  and  his  daughter  as  aiding  and  abetting  each  other, 
in  an  insidious  scheme  to  entangle  the  affections  of  Lord  Morti- 
mer, and  draw  him  into  a marriage  ; a scheme  which,  to  a man  of 
the  world  (as  they  knev/  Lord  Cherbury  to  be),  would  appear  so 
very  probable  as  to  gain  implicit  credit.  This  they  knew  would 
convert  the  esteem  he  felt  for  Fitzalan  into  hatred  and  con- 
tempt ; his  favor  would  consequently  be  withdrawn,  and  the 
father  and  child  again  sunk  into  indigent  obscurity.  To  think 
that  Amanda,  by  dire  necessity,  should  be  reduced  to  servitude 


THE  CHILDREX  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


U)t 

(o  think  the  elegance  of  her  form  should  be  disguised  by  the 
garb  of  poverty,  and  the  charms  of  her  face  faded  by  misery, 
were  ideas  so  grateful,  so  ecstatic  to  their  hearts,  that  to  have 
them  realized,  they  felt  they  could  with  pleasure  relinquish  the 
u.ttentions  of  Lord  Mortimer,  to  have  a pretext  for  injuring 
Fitzalan  with  his  father : though  not  quite  assured  their  suspi- 
cions were  well  founded,  they  would  never  have  hesitated  com^ 
municating  them  as  such  to  Lord  Cherbury  ; but  for  their  own 
satisfaction  they  wished  to  know  what  reason  they  had  to  en* 
tertain  them.  Lady  Greystock  was  the  only  person  they  ob- 
served on  a footing  of  intimacy  with  Amanda,  and  through  her 
means  flattered  themselves  they  might  make  the  desired  discov' 
ery.  They  therefore  began  to  unbend  from  their  haughtiness, 
^nd  make  overtures  for  an  intimacy  with  her ; overtures  which 
she  received  with  delight,  and  in  their  present  attention  forgot 
their  past  neglect,  which  had  given  her  such  disgust.  As  they 
became  intimate  with  her,  they  were  much  amui^ed  by  a shrewd 
manner  she  possessed  of  telling  stories,  and  placing  the  foibles 
and  imperfections  of  their  visitors  in  the  most  conspicuous 
and  ludicrous  light;  particularly  of  such  visitors  as  were  not 
agreeable  to  them.  With  the  foibles  of  human  nature  she  was 
well  acquainted,  also  with  the  art  of  turning  those  foibles  to 
her  own  advantage.  She  perceived  the  egregious  vanity  of 
the  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia,  and  by  administering 
large  portions  of  what  Sterne  styles  the  delicious  essence  of  the 
soul,  to  them,  soon  became  an  immense  favorite.  After  an  iu' 
junction  of  secrecy,  the  marchioness  communicated  her  fears 
relative  to  Lord  Mortimer  and  Amanda,  which,  she  pretended, 
regard  for  one  and  pity  for  the  other,  had  excited  ; as  an  attach- 
ment either  of  an  honorable  or  dishonorable  nature,  she  knew 
Lord  Cherbury  would  never  pardon.  To  know,  therefore,  how 
far  matters  had  proceeded  between  them,  would  be  some  satis- 
faction, and  might,  perhaps,  be  the  means  of  preventing  the  ill 
consequences  she  dreaded.  Lady  Greystock  was  not  to  be  im- 
posed on  ; she  perceived  it  was  not  pity  for  Amanda,  but  envy 
and  jealousy,  which  had  excited  the  fears  of  the  marchioness. 
If  Lord  Mortimer  was  attached  to  Amanda,  from  his  sentiments 
and  manner,  she  was  convinced  it  was  an  attachment  of  the 
purest  nature.  She  carefully  concealed  her  thoughts,  howevei, 
affected  to  enter  into  all  the  alarms  of  the  marchioness,  and, 
as  she  saw  she  was  expected  to  do,  promised  all  in  her  power 
should  be  done  for  discovering  what  attachment  subsisted  be- 
tween his  lordship  and  Miss  Fitzalan.  For  this  purpose  she 
began  to  grow  constant  in  her  visits  at  Castle  Carberry,  often 


192 


AD  BEY,'- 


THE  Clin.DDEX  CF  THE  . 

spending  whole  clays  in  the  most  familiar  manner  with  Amanda, 
and  endeavoring,  by  various  methods,  to  beguile  her  of  the 
secrets  of  her  heart.  Sometimes  she  rallied  her  on  her  melan- 
choly ; sometimes  expressed  pity  for  it  in  strains  of  the  most 
soothing  tenderness  ; would  frequently  relate  little  fictitious  and 
embellished  anecdotes  of  her  own  youth,  in  which  she  said  she 
had  suffered  the  most  exquisite  misery,  from  an  unfortunate  en- 
tanglement ; Vv'ould  then  advert  to  Lord  Mortimer  ; express  her 
wonder  at  his  precipitate  departure,  and  her  admiration  of  his 
virtues,  declaring  if  ever  Lady  Euphrasia  gained  his  heart,  which 
she  much  doubted,  she  must  be  considered  as  one  of  the  most 
fortunate  of  women. 

Delicacy  sealed  the  lips  of  Amanda  and  guarded  her  secret. 
She  believed  her  passion  to  be  hopeless,  and  felt  that  to  be  offered 
consolation  on  such  a subject,  would,  to  her  feelings,  be  truly 
humiliating.  But  though  she  could  command  her  words,  she 
could  not  her  feelings,  and  they  were  visibly  expressed  in  her 
countenance.  She  blushed  whenever  Lord  Mortimer  was  men- 
tioned; looked  shocked  if  a union  between  him  and  Lady 
Euphrasia  was  hinted  at ; and  smiled  if  a probability  was  sug- 
gested of  its  never  taking  place.  Lady  Greystock,  at  last, 
relinquished  her  attempts  at  betraying  Amanda  into  a confes- 
sion of  her  sentiments ; indeed,  she  thought  such  a confession 
not  very  requisite,  as  her  countenance  pretty  clearly  developed 
what  they  were  ; and  she  deemed  herself  authorized  to  inform 
the  marchioness  that  she  was  sure  something  had  passed  be- 
tween Lord  Mortimer  and  Amanda,  though  ^vhat  she  could  not 
discover,  from  the  circumspection  of  the  latter.  The  mar- 
chioness was  enraged,  and  more  determined  than  ever  on  in- 
volving Amanda  in  destruction,  if  Lord  Mortimer  hesitated  a 
moment  in  obeying  the  wishes  of  bis  father,  by  uniting  himself 
to  Lady  Euphrasia. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


*93 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


**  And  to  be  plain,  ’tis  not  your  person 
My  stomach’s  set  so  sharp  and  fierce  on; 

But  ’tis  your  better  part,  your  riches, 

That  my  enamored  heart  bewitches.” — Hudibras* 

A MONTH  after  the  departure  of  Lord  Mortimer  the  Roslin 
family  left  LTlster  Lodge.  Amanda  sighed,  as  she  saw  them 
pass,  at  the  idea  of  the  approaching  meeting,  which  might,  per- 
haps, soon  be  followed  by  an  event  that  would  render  her  fond 
remembrance  of  Lord  Mortimer  improper.  Many  of  the 
families  about  the  castle  were  already  gone  to  town  for  the 
winter.  Those  who  remained  in  the  country  till  after  Christ- 
mas, among  whom  were  the  Kilcorbans,  had  so  entirely  neg- 
lected Amanda,  from  the  time  the  marchioness  arrived  in  the 
neighborhood,  that  they  could  not  think  of  renewing  their  visits, 
confident  as  they  were,  from  the  proper  dignity  of  her  and 
Fitzalan’s  manner,  that  they  would  be  unwelcome. 

The  weather  was  now  often  too  severe  to  permit  Amanda 
to  take  her  usual  rambles ; and  the  solitude  of  the  castle  was 
heightened  by  her  own  melancholy  ideas,  as  well  as  by  the 
dreariness  of  the  season.  No  more  the  magic  hand  of  hope 
sketched  scenes  of  flattering  brightness,  to  dissipate  the  gloomi- 
ness of  the  present  ones.  The  prospects  of  Amanda’s  heart 
were  as  dreary,  as  desolate,  as  those  she  viewed  from  the  win- 
dows of  the  castle.  Her  usual  avocations  no  longer  yielded 
delight.  Every  idea,  every  occupation,  was  embittered  by  the 
reflection  of  being  lessened  in  the  estimation  of  Lord  Mortimer. 
Her  health  declined  with  her  peace,  and  again  Fitzalan  had 
the  anguish  of  seeing  sorrow  nipping  his  lovely  blossom.  The 
rose  forsook  her  cheek,  and  her  form  assumed  a fragile  deli- 
cacy, which  threatened  the  demolition  of  his  earthly  happiness. 
He  was  not  ignorant  of  the  cause  of  her  dejection,  but  he 
would  not  shock  her  feelings  by  hinting  it.  Every  effort 
which  tenderness  could  suggest,  he  essayed  to  cheer  her,  but 
without  any  durable  effect ; for  though  she  smiled  when  he  ex- 
pressed a wish  to  see  her  cheerful,  it  was  a smile  transient  as 
the  gleamings  of  a wintry  sun,  and  which  only  rendered  the 
succeeding  gloom  more  conspicuous. 

At  this  period  of  distress,  Lady  Greystock,  who  continued 


194 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBE  IT, 


her  visits  at  the  castle,  made  a proposal,  which  Fitzalan  eagerly 
embraced.  This  was  to  take  Amanda  with  her  to  London, 
whither  she  was  obliged  to  go  directly,  about  a lawsuit  carrying 
on  between  her  and  the  nephew  of  her  late  husband. 

Change  of  scene,  Fitzalan  trusted,  would  remove  from 
Amanda’s  mind  the  dejection  which  oppressed  it,  and  conse- 
quently aid  the  restoration  of  her  health.  Of  Lord  Mortimer’s 
renewing  his  addresses,  he  had  not  the  slightest  apprehension, 
as  he  neglected  the  opportunities  he  might  have  had  in  the 
country  for  such  a purpose.  Fitzalan,  it  may  be  remembered, 
knew  not  that  his  lordship  had  ever  deviated  from  his  indiffer- 
ence, and  he  believed  it  occasioned  by  a transfer  of  his  affec- 
tions to  Lady  Euphrasia.  He  was  also  ignorant  of  the  great 
intimacy  between  the  Roslin  family  and  Lady  Greystock,  and 
consequently  of  the  probability  there  was,  from  such  an  in- 
timacy, of  Amanda’s  being  often  in  the  way  of  Lord  Mortimer. 
If  she  met  him,  he  was  confident  it  would  be  as  the  husband 
or  favored  lover  of  Lady  Euphrasia  ; and,  ih.  either  of  these 
characters,  he  was  certain,  from  the  rectitude  and  purity  of  her 
principles,  she  would  be  more  than  ever  impressed  with  the 
necessity  of  conquering  her  attachment ; whilst  the  pain  attend- 
ing  such  a conviction  would  be  lessened,  and  probably  soon 
removed  by  surrounding  objects,  and  the  gay  scenes  she  must 
engage  in  from  being  the  companion  of  Lady  Greystock,  who 
had  a numerous  and  elegant  acquaintance  in  London. 

Her  ladyship  appeared  to  him,  as  she  did  to  many  others, 
JL  pleasing,  rational  woman — one  to  whose  care  his  heart’s  best 
treasure  might  safely  be  consigned.  He  was  induced  to  ac- 
cept her  protection  for  his  Amanda,  not  only  on  account  of 
her  present  but  future  welfare.  His  own  health  was  extremely 
delicate.  He  deemed  his  life  very  precarious,  and  flattered 
himself  Lady  Greystock,  by  having  his  beloved  girl  under  her 
care,  would  grow  so  attached  to  her,  as  to  prove  a friend  if  he 
should  be  snatched  away  ere  his  newly-obtained  independence 
enabled  him  to  make  a provision  for  her.  In  indulging  this 
hope,  his  heart  could  not  reproach  him  for  anything  mean  or 
selfish.  Her  ladyship  had  frequently  assured  him  all  her  rela- 
tions were  very  distant  ones,  and  in  affluent  circumstances,  so 
that  if  his  Amanda  received  any  proof  of  kindness  from  her, 
ohe  could  neither  injure  nor  encroach  on  the  rights  of  others. 

This,  however,  was  not  the  case,  though  carefully  concealed 
from  him,  as  well  as  many  others,  by  her  ladyship.  Het 
education  had  either  given  birth  to,  or  strengthened,  the  artful 
propensities  of  her  disposition.  She  had  been  one  of  the 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


195 


iiaffseroiis  offspring  of  a gentleman  in  the  southern  part  of  Ire^ 
land,  whose  wife,  a complete  housewife,  knowing  his  inability 
of  giving  his  daughters  fortunes,  determined  to  bring  them  up 
so  as  to  save  one  for  their  future  husbands. 

At  the  age  of  nineteen.  Miss  Bridget,  by  her  reputation  for 
domestic  cleverness,  attracted  the  notice  of  a man  of  easy  inde- 
pendence in  the  neighborhood,  who,  being  a perfect  Nimrod, 
wanted  somebody  to  manage  those  concerns  at  home,  which 
he  neglected  for  the  field  and  kennel  ; and  in  obtaining  Miss 
Bridget,  he  procured  this  valuable  acquisition.  His  love  of 
sport,  with  his  life,  was  fatally  terminated  the  second  year  of 
his  marriage,  by  his  attempting  to  leap  a five-bar  gate.  A 
good  jointure  devolved  to  his  window,  and  the  office  of  consol- 
ing her  to  the  rector  of  the  parish,  a little  fat  elderly  man,  who 
might  have  sat  very  well  for  the  picture  of  Boniface.  So  suc- 
cessful were  his  arguments,  that  he  not  only  expelled  sorrow 
from  her  heart,  but  introduced  himself  into  it,  and  had  the 
felicity  of  receiving  her  hand  as  soon  as  her  weeds  v/ere  laid 
aside.  Four  years  they  lived  in  uninterrupted  peace,  but  too 
free  an  enjoyment  of  the  good  things  of  this  life  undermined 
the  constitution  of  the  rector.  He  was  ordered  to  Bath,  where 
his  mortal  career  was  shortly  terminated,  and  his  whole  fortune 
was  left  to  his  wife. 

In  the  house  where  she  lodged  was  an  ancient  baronet,  who 
had  never  been  married.  His  fortune  was  considerable,  but 
his  manner  so  strange  and  whimsical,  that  he  appeared  inca- 
pable of  enjoying  the  advantages  it  would  have  afforded  to 
others.-  Notwithstanding  his  oddities,  he  was  compassionate  ; 
and  as  the  fair  relict  was  unaccompanied  by  a friend,  he  waited 
on  her  for  the  purpose  of  offering  consolation,  and  any  service 
in  his  power.  . This  attention  instantly  inspired  her  with  an 
idea  of  trying  to  make  him  feel  tenderer  sentiments  than  those 
of  pity  for  her.  His  title  and  fortune  were  so  attractive,  that 
neither  his  capricious  disposition,  nor  the  disparity  of  theii 
ages,  he  being  sixty,  and  she  only  eight-and-twenty,  could  pre- 
vent her  ardently  desiring  a connection  between  them.  Her 
efforts  to  effect  this  were  Jcng  unsuccessful ; but  perseverance 
will  almost  work  miracles.  Her  constant  good-humor,  and 
unremitted  solicitude  about  him,  who  was  in  general  an  invalid, 
at  last  made  an  impression  on  his  flinty  heart,  and  in  a fit  of 
sudden  gratitude  he  offered  her  his  hand,  which  was  eagerly 
accepted. 

The  presumptive  heir  to  the  baronet’s  large  possessions 
ftras  the  son  and  only  child  of  a deceased  sister.  At  the  period 


ig6  the  children  of  the  abbey. 

this  unexpected  alliance  took  place,  he  was  about  twenty, 
pleasing  in  his  person,  and  engaging  in  his  manner,  and  ten- 
derly beloved  by  his  uncle.  This  love.  Lady  Greystock  saw, 
if  it  continued,  would  frustrate  her  wish  of  possessing  the 
baronet’s  whole  property.  Various  schemes  fluctuated  in  her 
mind  relative  to  the  manner  in  which  she  should  lay  the  foun 
dation  for  Rushbrook’s  ruin.  Ere  she  could  determine  on 
one,  chance  discovered  a secret  which  completely  aided  her 
intentions. 

In  the  neighborhood  of  the  baronet’s  country  residence, 
Rushbrook  had  formed  an  attachment  for  the  daughter  of  a 
man  against  whom  his  uncle  entertained  the  most  inveterate 
enmity.  A union  with  this  girl,  she  was  well  convinced,  would 
ruin  him.  She  therefore  gave  him  to  understand  she  knew  of 
his  attachment,  and  sincerely  pitied  his  situation,  encouraging 
his  love  by  the  most  flattering  eulogiums  on  his  adored  Emily  ; 
declared  her  regret  that  hearts  so  congenial  should  be  sepa- 
rated ; and  at  last  intimated  that  if  they  wished  to  unite,  she 
was  convinced  she  would  soon  be  able  to  obtain  Sir  Geoffry’s 
forgiveness  for  such  a step.  Her  artful  insinuations  hurried 
the  unsuspicious  pair  into  the  snare  she  had  spread  for  them. 
The  consequence  of  this  was  what  she  expected. 

Sir  Geoffry’s  rage  v/as  unappeasable,  and  he  solemnly  vowed 
never  more  to  behold  his  nephew.  Lady  Greystock  wished  to 
preserve,  if  possible,  appearances  to  the  world,  and  prevailed 
on  him  to  give  her  five  hundred  pounds  for  Rushbrook,  to  which 
she  added  five  of  her  own,  and  presented  the  notes  to  him,  with 
an  assurance  of  pleading  his  cause  whenever  she  found  a favor- 
able opportunity  for  doing  so. 

He  purchased  an  ensigncy  in  a regiment  on  the  point  of 
embarking  for  America,  where  he  felt  he  would  rather  encounter 
distress  than  among  those  who  had  known  him  in  affluence. 

Her  ladyship  now  redoubled  her  attention  to  Sir  Geoffry, 
and  at  last  prepossessed  him  so  strongly  with  the  idea  of  her 
affection  for  him,  that  he  made  a will,  bequeathing  her  his  whole 
fortune,  which  she  flattered  herself  with  soon  enjoying.  But  the 
constitution  of  Sir  Geoffry  was  stronger  than  she  imagined,  and 
policy  obliged  her  to  adhere  to  a conduct  which  had  gained  his  ; 
favor,  as  she  knew  the  least  alteration  of  it  would,  to  his  capri-  ^ 
cious  temper,  be  sufficient  to  make  him  crush  all  her  hopes. 

Fifteen  years  passed  in  this  manner,  when  a friend  of  Rush- 
brook’s  advised  him  no  longer  to  be  deluded  by  the  promises 
Lady  Greystock  still  continued  to  make,  of  interceding  in  his  | 
tavor,  but  to  write  himself  to  bis  uncle  for  forgiveness,  which 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


197 


tne  duty  he  owed  his  family,  and  the  distress  of  his  situation, 
should  prompt  him  to  immediately.  Rushbrook  accordingly 
wrote  a most  pathetic  letter,  and  his  friend,  as  he  had  promised, 
delivered  it  himself  to  the  baronet.  The  contents  of  the  letter, 
and  the  remonstrance  of  his  visitor,  produced  a great  change 
;n  the  sentiments  of  the  baronet.  Tenderness  for  a nephew  he 
had  adopted  as  his  heir  from  his  infancy  began  to  revive,  and 
lie  seriously  reflected,  that  by  leaving  his  fortune  to  Lady  Grey- 
stock,  he  should  enrich  a family  unconnected  with  him,  whilst 
the  last  branch  of  his  own  was  left  to  obscurity  and  wretched- 
ness. Pride  recoiled  from  such  an  idea,  and  he  told  the  gentle- 
<Tian  he  would  consider  about  a reconciliation  with  his  nephew. 

The  conversation  between  them,  which  Lady  Greystock  had 
<:ontrived  to  overhear,  filled  her  with  dismay,;  but  this  was  in- 
creased almost  to  distraction,  when  an  attorney  being  sent  for, 
$he  repaired  again  to  her  hiding-place,  and  heard  a new  wT 
dictated  entirely  in  Rushbrook’s  favor. 

Sir  Geoffry  was  soon  prevailed  on  to  see  his  nephew,  but 
Mrs.  Rushbrook  and  the  children  were  not  suffered  to  appear 
before  him.  They  were,  however,  supplied  with  everything  re- 
quisite for  making  a genteel  appearance,  and  accompanying  the 
regiment  (again  ordered  abroad)  with  comfort. 

Soon  after  their  departure.  Sir  Geoffry  sunk  into  a sudden 
state  of  insensibility,  from  which  no  hopes  of  his  ever  recover- 
ing could  be  entertained.  The  situation  was  propitious  to  the 
designs  of  Lady  Greystock  ; none  but  creatures  of  her  own 
were  admitted  to  his  chamber.  An  attorney  was  sent  for,  who 
had  often  transacted  business  for  her,  relative  to  her  affairs  in 
Ireland ; and  a good  bribe  easily  prevailed  on  him  to  draw  up 
a will  she  dictated,  similar  to  that  before  made  in  her  favor. 
The  baronet  was  raised  in  her  arms,  whilst  the  attorney  guided 
his  almost  lifeless  hand  in  signing  it ; and  two  clerks  set  their 
names  as  witnesses.  Sir  Geoffry  expired  almost  immediately 
after  this  scheme  was  executed. 

Rushbrook’s  friend,  who  had  been  appointed  to  act  for  him, 
if  this  event  took  place  whilst  he  was  abroad,  now  appeared. 
A will  found  in  Sir  Geoffry’s  cabinet  was  read,  by  which  it  ap- 
peared Mr.  Rushbrook  was  his  sole  heir.  The  exultation  of 
the  peruser,  however,  was  of  short  continuance ; her  ladyship’s 
attorney  appeared,  and  declared  the  will  was  rendered  null  by 
one  of  later  date,  which  he  had  drawn  up  in  Sir  Geoffry’s 
moments,  by  his  express  desire.  Consternation  and  surprise 
pervaded  the  mind  of  Rushbrook’s  friend  ; he  saw  the  will  was 
too  well  attested  for  him  to  dispute  it,  yet  he  suspected  foul 


J98 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


play,  and  lost  no  time  in  communicating  his  suspicion  to  Rusxj) 
brook. 

Her  ladyship  settled  her  affairs  most  expeditiously  and  ru 
turned  with  delight  to  her  native  country,  after  a very  long  ab 
sence  from  it.  Most  of  her  near  relations  were  dead,  but  she 
had  many  distant  ones,  who,  prompted  by  the  knowledge  of 
her  large  fortune,  eagerly  reminded  her  of  their  affinity,  and 
vied  with  each  other  in  paying  her  attention.  This  was 
tremely  pleasing  to  her  ladyship,  who  was  fond  of  pleasure  at 
other  people’s  expense.  For  herself  she  had  laid  down  rules 
of  the  most  rigid  economy,  which  she  strictly  adhered  to. 
From  the  many  invitations  she  received  she  was  seldom  a resi- 
dent in  her  own  house  ; she  judged  of  others  by  herself,  and 
ascribed  the  attentions  she  received  to  their  real  source,  self- 
interest,  which  she  laughed  secretly  to  think  she  should  dis’- 
appoint. 

She  was  remarkable  (as  Miss  Kilcorban  informed  Amanda) 
for  asking  young  people  to  do  little  matters  for  her,  such  as  mak- 
ing her  millinery,  working  ruffles,  aprons,  and  handkerchiefs. 

The  tranquillity  she  enjoyed  for  two  years  after  Sir  Geoffry’s 
death  was  a little  interrupted  by  his  nephew’s  arrivd  from 
America,  and  commencing  a suit  directly  against  her  by  the 
advice  of  his  friends  and  some  eminent  lawyers,  on  the  sup- 
position that  the  will  by  which  she  inherited  had  been  made 
when  his  uncle  was  in  a state  of  imbecility. 

Lady  Greystock,  however,  received  but  a trifling  shock  from 
this  ; she  knew  he  had  no  money  to  carry  on  such  an  affair, 
and  that  his  advocates  would  lose  their  zeal  in  his  cause,  when 
convinced  of  the  state  of  his  finances.  On  being  obliged  to 
go  to  London  to  attend  the  suit,  it  immediately  occurred  that 
Amanda  would  be  a most  pleasing  companion  to  take  along 
with  her,  as  she  would  not  only  enliven  the  hours  she  must  some- 
times pass  at  home,  but  do  a number  of  little  things  in  the 
way  of  dress,  which  would  save  a great  deal  of  expense.- 

Amanda,  on  the  first  proposal  of  accompanying  her,  warmly 
opposed  it ; she  felt  unutterable  reluctance  to  leave  her  father,  and 
assured  him  she  w^ould,  by  exerting  herself,  prove  that  a change 
of  scene  was  not  requisite  for  restoring  her  cheerfulness. 
Fitzalan  knew  her  sincerity  in  making  this  promise,  but  he  also 
knew  her  inability  of  performing  it  ; his  happiness,  he  declared, 
depended  on  her  complying  with  this  request : he  even  said  his 
own  health  would  probably  be  established  by  it,  as  during  her 
absence  he  would  partake  of  the  amusements  of  the  country, 
which  he  had  hitherto  declined  on  her  account.  This  asser- 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


199 


r’on  prevailed  on  her  to  consent,  and  immediate  preparations 
were  made  for  her  journey,  as  the  invitation  had  not  been  givep- 
till  within  a few  days  of  her  ladyship’s  intended  departure.  As 
she  went  by  Holyhead,  Fitzalan  determined  on  sending  Ellei 
to  her  parents  till  Amanda  returned  from  England,  which  de» 
termination  pleased  Ellen  exceedingly,  as  she  longed  to  see  hei 
family,  and  tell  them  particulars  of  Chip.  As  the  hour  ap- 
proached for  quitting  her  father,  the  regret  and  reluctance  of 
Amanda  increased ; nor  were  his  feelings  less  oppressive, 
though  better  concealed : but  when  the  moment  of  parting 
came,  they  could  no  longer  be  suppressed  ; he  held  her  with  a 
trembling  grasp  to  his  heart,  as  if  life  would  forsake  it.  On 
her  departure,  the  gloom  on  his  mind  seemed  like  a presenti- 
ment of  evil ; he  repented  forcing  her  from  him,  and  scarcely 
could  he  refrain  from  saying  the}^  must  not  part. 

Lady  Greystock,  who  in  every  scene  and  every  situation 
preserved  her  composure,  hinted  to  him  the  injury  he  was  doing 
his  daughter  by  such  emotions  ; and  mentioned  how  short  their 
separation  would  be,  and.  what  benefit  would  accrue  to  Amanda 
trom  it. 

This  last  consideration  recalled  to  his  mind  instantly  com- 
posed him,  and  he  handed  them  to  her  ladyship’s  chariot,  which 
was  followed  by  a hired  chaise  containing  her  woman  and 
Ellen ; he  then  sighed  her  a last  adieu,  returned  to  his  solitary 
habitation  to  pray,  and  in  spite  of  all  his  efforts,  weep  for  his 
darling  child. 

Amanda’s  tears  streamed  down  her  pale  cheek,  and  never 
v^jd  she  experience  a pang  of  such  sorrow  as  that  she  felt, 
when,  the  chaise  descending  a hill,  she  caught  the  last  glimpse 
of  Castle  Carberry. 

She  perceived,  however,  that  her  ladyship  had  no  relish  for 
a gloomy  companion,  and  therefore  endeavored  to  recover  her. 
spirits,  and  enter  into  conversation. 

Lady  Greystock  had  a number  of  friends  in  that  part  of 
Ireland,  and  therefore  never  stopped  at  an  inn. 

‘‘  I always,  my  dear,”  said  she  to  Amanda,  ‘‘  make  use  of 
the  friendship  professed  for  me,  and  thus  endeavor  to  render 
the  great  road  of  life  delightful.” 

They  arrived  the  third  day  in  Sackville  Street,  where  her 
ladyship  had  a house,  and  two  days  after  embarked  for  Eng- 
land. They  slept  the  first  night,  they  landed  at  Holyhead,  and 
the  next  morning  pursued  their  iournev. 


M^O 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


CHAPTER  XXIY, 

* A song,  a flower,  a name,  at  once  restore 
Those  long-connected  scenes  when  first  they  moved 
The  attention — Akenside, 

The  dejection  of  Amanda  gradually  declined,  as  the  idea 
of  seeing  Lord  Mortimer  again  revived.  It  revived  not,  hoW' 
ever,  without  hopes,  fears,  and  agitations.  Sometimes  she  im^ 
agined  she  should  find  him  devoted  to  Lady  Euphrasia  ; then 
again  believed  his  honor  and  sincerity  would  not  allow  him  to 
give  her  up  so  suddenly,  and  that  this  apparent  indifference 
proceeded  from  resentment,  which  would  vanish  if  an  oppor- 
tunity once  offered  (and  she  trusted  there  would)  for  explain- 
ing her  conduct.  She  endeavored  to  calm  the  emotions  these 
ideas  gave  rise  to,  by  reflecting  that  a short  time  now  would 
most  probably  terminate  her  suspense. 

They  stopped  for  the  night,  about  five  o’clock,  at  an  inr 
about  a mile  from  Tudor  Hall.  After  dinner,  Amanda  informed 
Lady  Greystock  she  wished  to  accompany  Ellen  to  her  parent- 
To  this  her  ladyship  made  no  objection,  on  finding  she  did  not 
want  the  carriage.  She  charged  her,  however,  not  to  forgef. 
the  hour  of  tea,  by  which  time  she  would  be  refreshed  by  anapj, 
and  ready  to  engage  her  at  a game  of  picquet. 

They  set  out  unattended,  as  Ellen  refused  the  ostler’s  offer 
of  carrying  her  portmanteau,  saying  she  would  send  for  it  the 
next  day.  This  she  did  by  Amanda’s  desire,  who  wished,  un- 
observed, to  pursue  a walk,  in  which  she  promised  herself  a 
melancholy  indulgence,  from  reviewing  the  well-known  scene® 
endeared  by  tender  recollections. 

A mournful,  yet  not  undelightful,  sensation  attends  the  con- 
templation of  scenes  where  we  once  enjoyed  felicity — departed 
joys  are  ever  remembered  with  an  enthusiasm  of  tenderness 
■J^hich  soothes  the  sorrow  we  experience  for  their  loss. 

Such  were  the  present  feelings  of  Amanda  ; while  Ellen, 
V*ndisturbed  by  regrets  for  the  past,  pointed  out,  with  pleasure, 
the  dwellings  of  her  intimates  and  friends.  Yet  when  slue  came 
to  Chip’s  deserted  cottage,  she  stopped,  and  a tear  stole  from 
her  eye,  accompanied  at  the  same  time  by  a smile,  which  seemed 
tO  say,  ‘‘though  thou  art  now  lonely  and  cheerless,  the  period 
is  approaching  when  comfort  and  gayety  shall  resume  their  sta- 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


201 


tions  within  thee ; ^^hen  the  blaze  of  thy  fire  and  thy  taper 
shall  not  only  diffuse  cheerfulness  within,  but  without,  and  give 
a ray  to  the  desolate  or  benighted  traveller,  to  guide  him  to  thy 
hospitable  shelter  1 

Amanda,  leaning  on  Eilen^s  arm,  proceeded  slowly  in  her 
walk.  The  evening  was  delightful.  The  blue  vault  of  heaven 
was  spangled  with  stars,  and  the  air,  without  being  severely 
cold,  was  clear  and  refreshing.  Their  road,  on  one  side,  y^sls 
skirted  with  the  high  woods  of  Tudor  Hall.  Amanda  gazed 
on  them  with  emotion  ; but  when  she  came  to  the  gate  which 
Lord  Mortimer  had  opened  for  her  departure  at  their  first  in- 
terview, the  softness  of  her  heart,  could  no  longer  be  resisted  : 
she  stopped,  leaned  pensively  upon  it,  and  wept.  The  ever- 
greens, with  which  the  woods  abounded,  prevented  their  wear- 
ing a desolate  appearance.  She  wished  to  have  pierced  into 
their  most  sequestered  gloom,  but  she  had  no  time  to  indulge 
this  wish  ; nor  did  she,  indeed  believe  her  companion,  who 
was  tinctured  with  superstitious  fears,  would  have  accom- 
panied her.  When  the  glow  of  vegetation  again  revives,’’ 
said  she  to  herself  ; “ when  the  blossoms  and  the  flowers  again 
spread  their  spangled  foliage  to  the  sun,  and  every  shade 
sounds  with  harmony,  where,  alas ! will  Amanda  be  ? — far 
stant,  in  all  probability,  from  these  delightful  scenes,  perhaps 
neglected  and  forgotten  by  their  master ! ” 

The  awful  murmurs  of  the  wind  rustling  through  the  trees, 
joined  to  the  solemn  sound  of  a neighboring  waterfall,  began 
to  -excite  fears  in  Ellen’s  breast.  She  laid  her  trembling  hand 
on  Amanda,  and  besought  her,  for  the  love  of  Cot,  to  hasten 
to  the  cottage.  The  road  still  wound  round  the  wood  ; and 
lights  from  a small  village,  which  lay  on  its  borders,  cast  vari- 
ous shadows  upon  the  trees ; whilst  the  hum  of  distant  voices 
floated  upon  the  gale,  and  fancy  pictured  joyous  groups  of 
rustics  assembling  round  their  fires,  to  enjoy  refreshment  after 
ihe  labors  of  the  day. 

“ Peaceful  people,”  said  Amanda,  “ when  the  wants  of  nature 
are  satisfied,  no  care  or  trouble  obtrudes  upon  your  minds. 
Tired,  but  not  exhausted  with  the  toils  of  the  day,  with  prepar 
ing  the  bosom  of  the  earth  for  the  ethereal  mildness  of  the 
spring,  you  seek  and  enjoy  a calm  repose.” 

In  the  lane  which  led  to  her  nurse’s  cottage,  Amanda 
paused  for  a moment.  Down  this  lane  Lord  Mortimer  haa 
once  pursued  her.  She  looked  towards  the  mansion  of  Tudor 
Hall.  She  endeavored  to  discern  the  library,  but  all  was  darK 
and  dismal,  except  the  wing,  which  Ellen  informed  her  was 


202 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


occupied  by  the  domestics.  Through  the  window  of  Edwin’s 
cottage,  they  saw  all  the  family  seated  round  a blazing  fire, 
chatting  and  laughing.  The  transport  of  Ellen’s  heart  over 
came  every  idea  of  caution.  She  hastily  unlatched  the  door^ 
and  flung  herself  into  her  parents’  arms.  Their  surprise  and 
joy  was  unbounded;  and  Amanda  was  received  and  welcomed 
with  as  much  tenderness  as  th^ir  child,  without  ever  asking  the 
reason  of  her  sudden  appearance.  The  first  question  was, 
‘‘  Would  she  not  stay  with  them  ? ” and  her  answer  filled  them 
with  regret  and  disappointment.  Perceiving  them  about  pro- 
curing her  refreshments,  she  declared  she  had  not  a minute 
to  stay.  The  time  allotted  for  her  walk  was  already  exceeded, 
and  she  feared  Lady  Greystock  would  be  offended  at  being  left 
so  long  at  an  inn  by  herself.”  She  therefore  hastily  presented 
some  little  presents  she  had  brought  for  the  family,  and  was 
bidding  them  farewell,  when  poor  Ellen,  who,  from  so  long 
residing  with  her  young  lady,  almost  adored  her,  suddenly 
flung  herself  into  her  arms,  and  clinging  round  her  neck,  as  if 
to  prevent  a separation,  which,  till  the  moment  of  its  arrival, 
she  thought  she  could  have  supported,  exclaimed  : — • 

‘‘  Oh'  my  tear  young  laty,  we  are  going  to  part,  and  my 
heart  siriks  within  me  at  the  idea.  Even  Chip  himself,  if  he 
was  here,  could  not  console  me.  I know  you  are  not  happy, 
and  that'  increases  my  sorrow.  Your  sweet  cheek  is  pale,  and 
I have  often  seen  you  cry  when  you  thought  no  poty  \^as  mind- 
ing you.  If  you  who  are  so  goot  are  not  happy,  how  can  a 
peing  like  me  hope  to  be  so  ? Oh,  may  I soon  pe  plest  with 
seeing  you  return  the  mistress  of  Tudor  Hall,  married  to  the 
sweetest,  handsomest  of  hoblemen,  who,  I know,  in  my  soul, 
loves  you,  as  well  inteed  he  may,  for  where  would  he  see  the 
fellow  of  my  young  laty } Then  Chip  and  I will  be  so  happy, 
for  I am  sure  you  and  my  lort  will  shelter  our  humble  cottage.” 

Amanda  pressed  the  affectionate  girl  to  her  breast,  and 
mingled  tears  with  hers,  while  she  softly  whispered  to  her  not 
to  hint  at  such  an  event ; but  be  assured,  my  dearest  Ellen,” 
continued  she,  ‘‘  that  I shall  ever  rejoice  at  your  felicity,  which, 
to  the  utmost  of  my  power,  I would  promote,  and  hope  soon  to 
hear  of  your  union  with  Chip.” 

Alack-a-tay  1 ” said  her  nurse  ; ‘‘  are  you  going  away, 
when  I thought  you  come  to  stay  among  us 't  and  then,  per- 
haps, my  lort  would  have  come,  and  then  there  would  have 
peen  such  a happy  meeting.  Why,  I verily  thought  he  would 
have  gone  distracted  when  he  found  you,  as  one  may  say,  mh 
away ; and  to  pe  sure  I did  pity  him,  and  should  have  made  no 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


203 


jcruple  to  tell  him  where  you  were,  had  I known  it  myself, 
which  he  suspected,  for  he  offered  me  a sight  of  money  if  1 
would  discover.  Then  there  is  Parson  Howel  ; why  he  has 
peen  like  unto  nothing  put  a ghost  since  you  went  away  ; and 
he  does  so  sigh,  and  he  comes  almost  every  tay  to  ask  me 
apout  you,  and  whether  I think  or  know  Lord  M(^rtimer  i,^ 
with  you.  He  will  pe  in  such  grief  to  think  you  were  here 
without  his  seeing  you.” 

Well,”  said  Amanda,  endeavoring  to  appear  cheerful,  “we 
may  all  yet  have  a happy  meeting.” 

She  then  repeated  her  farewell,  and,  leaning  on  the  arm  of 
old  Edwin,  returned  to  the  inn,  where  she  again  bid  him  adieu;; 
and  hastening  to  her  ladyship,  found  her  just  awaking  from  a 
comfortable  slumber.  They  drank  tea,  and,  after  playing  fcr 
about  an  hour  at  picquet,  retired  to  rest.  Amanda,  who  en« 
joyed  but  little  repose,  rose  early  in  the  morning,  and,  finding 
her  ladyship  not  quite  ready,  went  down  to  the  court  to  walk 
about  till  she  was  ; where,  to  her  great  surprise,  the  first  object 
she  perceived  was  Howel,  leaning  pensively  against  a gatv? 
opposite  the  house.  He  flew  over,  and,  catching  her  hand;, 
exclaimed,  “You  are  surprised,  but,  I trust,  not  displeased.  I 
could  not  resist  such  an  opportunity  of  seeing  you  once  more, 
after  all  I have  suffered  from  your  precipitate  journey,  and  the 
probability  of  never  more  beholding  you.  I have  been  watch- 
ing here,  in  expectation  of  this  happiness,  since  the  first  dawn 
of  day.” 

“ I am  sorry,”  said  Amanda,  gravely,  “ your  time  was  so  ill 
employed.”' 

“ How  coldly  you  speak,”  cried  he.  “ Ah  ! could  you  read 
my  heart,  you  would  see  so  little  presumption  in  it,  that  you 
w^ould,  I am  confident,  pity,  though  you  could  not  relieve,  its 
feelings.  Every  spot  you  loved  to  frequent,  I have  haunted 
since  your  departure.  Your  mother’s  grave  has  often  been  the 
scene  of  pensive  meditation.  Nor  has  it  wanted  its  vernal 
offering  ; the  loveliest  flowers  of  my  garden  I have  wove  into 
wreaths,  and  hung  them  over  it,  in  fond  remembrance  of  her 
angel  daughter.” 

The  plaintive  sound  of  Howel’s  voice,  the  dejection  of  his 
countenance,  excited  the  softest  feelings  of  sensibility  in 
Amanda’s  bosom.  But  she  grew  confused  by  the  tenderness 
of  his  expression,  and,  saying  she  was  happy  to  see  him,  tried 
to  disengage  her  hand,  that  she  might  retire. 

“ Surely,”  exclaimed  he,  still  detaining  it  a few  moments, 
you  might  grant  me  without  reluctance — you,  who  are  going 


204  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

to  enjoy  every  happiness  and  pleasure,  going  to  meet  Vt\e  i4 
vored 

Amanda  anticipated  the  name  he  was  about  uttering,  and 
her  confusion  redoubled.  She  attempted  again,  yet  in  vain,  to 
withdraw  her  hand,  and  turned  to  see  whether  any  one  was 
observing  them.  How  great  was  her  mortification,  on  perceiv* 
ing  Lady  Greystock  leaning  from  a window,  exactly  over  their 
heads  ! She  smiled  significantly  at  Amanda,  on  being  seen  ; 
and,  the  carriage  being  ready,  said,  She  would  atfend  her 
below  stairs.’’  Howel  now  relinquished  Amanda’s  hand.  He 
saw  she  looked  displeased  ; and  expressed  such  sorrow,  accom- 
panied with  such  submissive  apologies  for  offending  her,  that 
she  could  not  avoid  according  him  her  pardon.  He  handed 
both  her  and  Lady  Greystock  into  the  carriage,  and  looked  a 
melancholy  adieu  as  it  drove  off. 

“ Upon  my  word,  a pretty  smart  young  fellow  ! ” said  Lady 
Greystock.  ‘‘  Though  impatient  this  long  time  to  set  out,  I 
could  not  think  of  interrupting  the  interesting  tete-a-tete  I saw 
between  you  and  him.  I suppose  you  have  been  a resident 
in  this  part  of  the  country  before,  from  your  seeming  to  know 
this  tender  swain  so  well.” 

Amanda  wished  to  avoid  acknowledging  this.  If  known, 
she  feared  it  would  lead  to  a discovery,  or  at  least  excite  a 
suspicion  of  her  intimacy  with  Lord  Mortimer,  which  she  was 
desirious  of  concealing,  while  in  this  uncertainty  concerning 
him. 

Your  ladyship  has  heard,  I believe,”  replied  she,  tha^ 
Ellen’s  mother  nursed  me  ? ” ‘‘Yes,  my  dear,”  answered  her 
ladyship,  with  some  smartness;  “but  if  your  acquaintance 
even  commenced  with  this  youth  in  infancy,  I fancy  it  has  been 
renewed  since  that  period.” 

Amanda  blushed  deeply,  and,  to  hide  her  confusion,  pre- 
tended to  be  looking  at  the  prospect  from  the  window.  Lady 
Greystock’s  eyes  pursued  hers.  Tudor  Hall  was  conspicuous 
from  the  road,  and  Amanda  involuntarily  sighed  as  she  viewed  it. 

“ That  is  a fine  domain,”  said  Lady  Greystock  ; “ I presume 
you  have  visited  it,  and  know  its  owner  ? ” 

Amanda  could  not  assert  a falsehood,  neither  could  she 
evade  the  inquiries  of  Lady  Greystock ; and  therefore  not  only 
confessed  its  being  the  estate  of  Lord  Mortimer,  but  her  own 
residence  near  it  the  preceding  summer.  Her  ladyship  im- 
mediately conjectured  it  was  then  the  attachment  between  her 
and  Lord  Mortimer  had  commenced  ; and  the  blushes,  the 
.hesitation,  and  the  unwillingness  of  Amanda,  in  owning  hef 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


20S 


visit  to  Wales,  all  confirmed  this  conjecture.  She  tried,  how- 
ever, to  insinuate  herself  into  her  full  confidence,  by  warm  ex- 
pressions of  esteem,  and  by  hinting,  that  from  the  disposition 
of  Lord  Mortimer,  she  could  not  believe  he  ever  did,  or  ever 
would,  think  seriously  of  Lady  Euphrasia ; this,  she  hoped, 
would  either  induce  or  betray  Amanda  to  open  her  whole 
heart ; but  she  was  disappointed.  She  flattered  herself,  how- 
ever, with  thinking  she  had  discovered  enough  to  satisfy  the 
marchioness,  if  she,  as  Lady  Greystock  feared  she  would, 
expressed  any  disapprobation  at  seeing  Amanda  her  compan- 
ion. She  intended  saying,  that  Fitzalan  had  absolutely  forced 
her  under  her  protection. 

They  arrived  late  in  the  evening  of  the  third  day  at  Pall 
Mall,  where  her  ladyship’s  agent  had  previously  taken  lodgings 
for  them. 

Lady  Greystock,  though  immersed  in  business  against  the 
approaching  trial,  neglected  no  means  of  amusement ; and,  the 
day  after  her  arrival,  sent  a card  of  inquiry  to  the  Roslin 
family,  as  the  most  eligible  mode  of  informing  them  of  it.  The 
next  morning,  as  she  expected,  she  received  a visit  from  them. 
Amanda  was  sitting  in  the  window  when  the  carriage  drove  up 
to  the  door.  She  instantly  arose,  and  left  the  room,  deter- 
mined neither  to  expose  herself  to  their  impertinence,  or  ap- 
pear solicitous  for  their  notice,  by  staying  in  their  company 
uninvited.  Lady  Greystock  soon  informed  them  of  Amanda’s 
having  accompanied  her  to  London  ; and  they,  as  she  ex- 
pected, expressed  both  surprise  and  displeasure  at  it.  As  she 
had  settled  in  her  own  mind,  she,  therefore,  told  them,  that 
Fitzalan  had  urged  her  to  take  his  daughter  under  her  care, 
with  entreaties  she  could  not  resist.  Entreaties,”  she  added, 
with  a significant  look,  “ she  believed  he  had  good  reason  for 
making.”  She  then  related  all  she  suspected,  or  rather  had 
discovered,  relative  to  the  attachment  between  Lord  Moitiaier 
and  Amanda  having  commenced  the  preceding  summer  in 
Wales. 

The  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia  instantly  concluded 
she  was  sent  to  London  for  the  purpose  of  having  it  completed 
by  a marriage.  This,  however,  they  determined  to  prevent. 
The  marchioness  felt  the  most  inveterate  hatred  against  her ; 
and  also,  that,  to  prevent  her  being  advantageously  settled, 
even  if  that  settlement  threatened  not  to  interfere  with  the  one 
she  had  projected  for  her  daughter,  she  could  undertake  almost 
any  project.  Though  she  abhorred  the  idea  of  noticing  her, 
yet  she  was  tempted  now  to  do  so,  from  the  idea  that  it  would 


±o6  the  children  of  the  abbey. 

better  enable  her  to  watch  her  actions.  This  idea  she  commu- 
nicatea  in  a hasty  whisper  to  I;?dy  Euphrasia,  who,  approving 
it,  she  told  Lady  Greystock,  as  Miss  P'itzalan  was  hei  guest, 
she  would,  on  that  account,  permit  her  to  be  introduced  to 
them.’^  Amanda  was  accordingly  sent  for.  On  entering  the 
room.  Lady  Greystock  took  her  hand,  and  presented  her  to 
the  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia.  The  former,  half  rising, 
with  a coldness  .she  could  not  conquer,  said,  ‘‘Whenever  Lady 
Greystock  honored  her  with  a visit,  she  should  be  happy  to  see 
Miss  Fitzalan  along  with  her.’’  The  latter  only  noticed  her 
by  a slight  bow ; and  when  Amanda  drew  a chair  near  the 
sofa  on  which  she  sat,  or  rather  reclined,  she  continued  staring 
in  her  face,  and  alternately  humming  an  Italian  air,  and  caress- 
ing a little  dog  she  had  brought  with  her.  The  unembarrassed 
elegance  of  Amanda’s  air  and  manner  surprised  and  mortified 
them,  as  they  expected  to  have  seen  her  covered  with  confusion, 
at  an  introduction  so  unexpected.  To  their  haughty  souls, 
nothing  was  more  delightful  than  the  awe  and  deference  wLich 
vulgar  and  illiberal  minds  are  so  apt  to  pay  to  rank  and  fortune. 
They  were  provoked  to  see,  in  Amanda,  conscious  dignity,  in- 
stead of  trembling  diffidence.  As  she  sat  by  Lady  Euphrasia, 
the  marchioness  could  not  help  secretly  confessing  she  was  a 
dangerous  rival  to  her  daughter ; for  never  did  her  lovely 
features  and  ingenuous  countenance  appear  to  such  advantage, 
as  when  contrasted  to  Lady  Euphrasia’s.  The  Marchioness, 
withdrew  soon  after  her  entrance,  unable  longer  to  restrain  the 
malignant  passions  which  envy  had  excited. 

Both  she  and  Lady  Euphrasia  were  convinced  that  to  com- 
municate their  suspicions  at  present  to  Lord  Cherbury  about 
her  and  his  son,  would  not  answer  the  end  proposed,  for  T 
could  be  of  little  consequence,  they  reflected,  to  withdraw  the  . 
esteem  of  the  father,  if  that  of  the  son  continued,  who,  inde-' 
pendent  in  his  notions,  and  certain  of  the  fortunes  of  his  ances- 
tors, might  not  hesitate  to  gratify  himself.  The  point,  there- 
fore, was,  by  some  deep-laid  scheme,  to  ruin  Amanda  in  the 
estimation  of  Lord  Mortimer  ; and  if  in  the  power  of  mortals  to 
contrive  and  execute  such  a scheme,  they  gave  themselves 
credit  for  being  able  to  effect  it. 

The  blow  at  her  fond  hopes,  they  resolved,  should  be  fol- 
lowed by  one  against  the  peace  of  Fitzalan,  on  whom  they 
knew,  whenever  they  pleased,  they  could  draw  the  resentment 
of  Lord  Cherbury.  Thus  should  they  completely  triumph  over 
the  lovely  Amanda — plunge  two  beings  they  detested  into 
poverty  and  wretchedness — destroy  expectations  which  inter- 


fHE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


207 

fered  with  their  own,  and  secure  an  alliance  with  a man  they 
had  long  wished  united  to  their  family. 

From  the  unaltered  indifference  of  Lord  Mortimer  to  Lady 
Euphrasia,  they  were  convinced  of  ^his  predilection  for  another, 
flattering  themselves  that  nothing  but  a prior  attachment  could 
have  rendered  him  insensible  to  the  attractions  of  her  ladyship. 
To  render  the  object  of  this  attachment  contemptible  in  his 
sight,  they  believed  would  produce  the  transfeA  of  affections 
they  so  long  desired.  The  haughty  soul  of  Lady  Euphrasia 
\vould  never  have  permitted  her  to  think  of  accepting  Lord 
Mortimer  after  his  neglect  of  her,  but  by  the  opportunity  she 
should  have  by  such  an  acceptance  ei  triumphing  over  Amanda. 
From  this  idea,  she  entered  warmly  into  all  her  mother’s  plans. 

Lord  Cherbury  had  never  yet  spoken  explicitly  to  his  son 
concerning  the  union  he  had  projected  for  him^  He  often, 
indeed,  dropped  hints  about  it,  which  he  always  found  either 
neglected,  or  purposely  misunderstood  ; and  from  these  circum- 
stances was  pretty  sensible  of  the  disinclination  Lord  Mortimer 
felt  to  his  wishes.  He  knew  he  entertained  high  notions  of  the 
independence  which  a rational  mind  has  a right  to  maintain, 
and  that  in  an  affair  of  such  consequence,  as  Mortimer  fre- 
quently said  he  considered  a matrimonial  connection  to  be,  he 
would  neither  be  controlled  by  the  opinion  of  others  or  merely 
allured  by  the  advantages  of  fortune. 

To  avoid  a disagreeable  argument  with  a son  he  not  only 
loved,  but  respected,  he  sought  rather,  by  indirect  means,  to 
involve  him  in  an  entanglement  with  the  Roslin  family,  than 
come  to  an  open  explanation  with  him.  For  this  purpose  he 
contrived  parties  as  often  as  possible  with  them  in  public; 
where,  by  Lord  Mortimer’s  being  seen  with  Lady  Euphrasia, 
reports  might  be  raised  of  an  intended  alliance  between  them 
— reports  which  he  himself  propagated  among  some  particular 
friends,  with  a desire  of  having  them  circulated,  but  an  injunc- 
tion of  secrecy  as  to  their  author.  These  reports  would,  he 
trusted,  on  reaching  Lord  Mortimer,  lead  to  a discussion  of  the 
affair ; and  then,  he  meant  to  say,  as  Lord  Mortimer  had 
partly  contributed  to  raise  them  himself  by  his  attendance  pn 
Lady  Euphrasia,  he  could  not  possibly,  with  honor,  recede 
from  realizing  them ; yet  often  did  his  lordship  fear  his  scheme 
would  prove  abortive — for  he  well  knew  the  cool  judgrpent  and 
keen  penetration  of  his  son.  This  fear  always  inspired  him 
with  horror,  for  he  had  a motive  for  desiring  the  union  which  he 
durst  not  avow. 

Lord  Mortimer  quickly  indeed  di^rf^iAed  what  his  father^s 


208  THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

views  were  in  promoting  his  attendance  on  Lady  Euphrasia 
He  therefore  avoided  her  society  whenever  it  was  possible  to 
do  so  without  absolute  rudeness,  and  contradicted  the  reports 
he  almost  continually  heard  of  an  intended  alliance  between 
them  in  the  most  solemn  manner.  He  had  always  disliked  her, 
but  latterly  that  dislike  was  converted  into  hatred,  from  the 
malevolence  of  her  conduct  towards  Amanda  ; and  he  felt  that, 
even  were  his  heart  free,  he  never  could  devote  it  to  her — or 
give  his  hand  where  it  must  be  unaccompanied  with  esteem. 
He  wished  to  avoid  a disagreeable  conversation  with  Lord 
Cherbury,  and  flattered  himself  his  unaltered  indifference  to 
her  ladyship  would  at  length  convince  his  lordship  of  the  im- 
possibility of  accomplishing  his  - projected  scheme;  and  that 
consequently  it  would  be  dropped  ere  openly  avowed,  and  he 
saved  the  painful  necessity  of  absolutely  rejecting  a proposal  of 
his  father’s. 

In  the  evening  Lady  Greystock  and  Amanda  received 
cards  for  dinner  the  next  day  at  the  Marquis  of  Roslin’s. 
Amanda  made  no  objection  to  this  invitation.  Her  father  had 
often  declared,  if  the  marchioness  made  an  overture  for  an  inti- 
macy with  his  children,  he  would  not  reject  it,  as  he  always 
deemed  family  quarrels  highly  prejudicial  to  both  parties,  with 
regard  to  the  opinion  of  the  world.  Besides,  had  she  objected 
to  it,  she  should  either  have  been  a restraint  on  Lady  Grey- 
stock,  or  left  to  total  solitude  ; and  the  idea  also  stole  upon 
her  mind  that  she  should  lose  a chance  of  seeing  Lord  Mortimer, 
whom  she  supposed  a frequent  guest  of  the  marquis’s.  Her 
heart  fluttered  at  the  idea  of  soon  beholding  him,  and  the  briglu 
glow  of  animation  which  overspread  her  countenance  in  conse- 
quence of  this  idea  attracted  the  observation  of  Lady  Greystock, 
who  congratulated  her  on  the  alteration  that  was  already  visi- 
ble in  her  looks  ; and  inferred  from  thence  that  she  was  so  well 
recovered  of  her  fatigue  as  to  be  able  to  contrive  a little  trim- 
ming for  her  against  the  next  day.  This  Amanda  cheerfully 
undertook,  and  having  a quick  execution  as  weil  as  an  elegant 
taste,  soon  made  progress  in  it  which  delighted  her  ladyship, 
who,  to  divert  her  while  she  worked,  related  some  of  the  many 
entertaining  anecdotes  with  which  her  memory  was  stored. 

Though  Amanda  submitted  her  beautiful  hair  to  the  hands 
of  a friseur,  she  departed  not  from  the  elegant  simplicity 
always  conspicuous  in  her  dress.  Her  little  ornaments  were 
all  arranged  with  taste,  and  an  anxious  wish  of  appearing  to 
Advantage.  So  lovely,  indeed,  did  she  appear  to  Lady  Grey- 
stock, that  her  ladyship  began  seriously  to  she  should  not 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


209 


be  forgiven  by  the  marchioness  or  Lady  Euphrasia,  for  having 
introduced  such  an  object  to  their  parties. 

About  six  they  reached  Portinan  Square,  and  found  a large 
party  assembled  in  the  drawing-room.  After  the  first  complb 
ments  were  over  and  Amanda  introduced  to  the  marquis — not, 
indeed,  as  a near  relation,  but  an  utter  stranger — a gentleman 
stepped  up  to  the  marchioness,  and  addressing  her  in  a low 
voice,  v/as  immediately  presented  by  her  to  Amanda,  as  the 
Earl  of  Cherbury. 

‘‘  My  dear  young  lady,’’  said  he,  allow  me  to  express  the 
pleasure  I feel  at  seeing  the  daughter  of  my  worthy  friend,  Mr. 
Fitzalan.  Allow  me  also  to  increase  that  pleasure,”  continued 
he,  taking  her  hand,  and  leading  her  to  a very  lovely  girl  who 
sat  at  some  distance,  ‘‘  by  presenting  Miss  Fitzalan  to  L^dy 
Araminta  Dormer,  and  desiring  their  friendship  for  each  other.” 

Surprised,  confused,  yet  delighted  by  notice  so  little  ex* 
pected,  the  heart  of  Amanda  heaved  with  emotion  ; her  cheeks 
mantled  with  blushes,  and  the  tear  of  sensibility  trembled  in 
her  eye.  She  was  not,  however,  so  embarrassed  as  to  be  in- 
capable of  expressing  her  acknowledgments  to  his  lordship  for 
his  attention,  and  also  to  assure  him  she  had  early  been  taught, 
and  sensibly  felt,  the  claims  he  had  upon  her  gratitude  and 
respect.  He  bowed,  as  if  to  prevent  a further  mention  of  ob- 
ligations, and  left  her  seated  by  his  daughter,  who  had  ex- 
pressed her  pleasure  at  being  introduced  to  her,  not  in  the 
supercilious  style  of  Lady  Euphrasia,  but  in  the  sweet  accents 
of  affability  and  tenderness. 

The  conduct  of  Lord  Cherbury  had  drawn  all  eyes  upon 
Amanda  ; and  the  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia  regarded 
her  with  peculiar  malignancy.  The  idea,  however,  that  they 
could,  whenever  they  pleased,  deprive  her  of  his  notice,  a little 
lessened  the  jealousy  and  mortification  it  had  excited. 

Pray,  who  is  this  little  creature,”  exclaimed  Miss  Mal- 
colm (who  v/as  a relation  of  the  Marquis’s,  and,  from  being 
extremely  ugly,  extremely  rich,  and  extremely  ill-natured,  was 
an  immense  favorite  of  Lady  Euphrasia’s),  ‘‘  that  puts  one  in 
mind  of  a country  miss,  on  her  first  appearance  at  a country 
assembly,  blushing  and  trembling  at  every  eye  she  meets  ? ” 

“ Some  kind  of  a far-off  relation  of  my  mother’s,”  replied 
Lady  Euphrasia,  “ whom  that  old  dowager,  Lady  Greystock, 
picked  up  in  the  wilds  of  Ireland,  and  has  absolutely  forced 
upon  our  notice ; though  I assure  you,  from  .compassion,  we 
should  have  taken  the  poor  creature  long  ago  under  our  pro- 
tection, but  for  the  shocking  conduct  of  her  family  to  the  mai^ 

•JL 


210 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


chioness,  and  the  symptoms  she  has  already  betrayed  of  fol- 
lowing their  example.  It  is  really  ridiculous  sending  her  to 
London.  I dare  say  her  silly  old  father  has  exhausted  all  his 
ways  and  means  in  trying  to  render  her  decent,  comforting  him- 
self, no  doubt,  with  the^  hope  of  her  entrapping  some  young 
fool  of  quality,  who  rnay  supply  his  wants  as  well  as  hers.’^ 

“ Ay,  I suppose  all  the  stock  in  the  farm  was  sold  to  dress 
her  out,”  cried  young  Freelove,  a little,  trifling  fop,  who  lean- 
ed on  the  back  of  her  ladyship’s  chair.  He  was  a ward  of 
Lord  Cherburj/,  and  his  fortune  considerable  ; but  nature  had 
not  been  quite  as  bounteous  to  him  as  the  blind  goddess.  Both 
his  mind  and  person  were  effeminate  to  a degree  of  insignifi- 
cance. All  he  aimed  at  was — being  a man  of  fashion.  His 
manners,  like  his  dress,  were  therefore  regulated  by  it,  and  he 
never  attempted  to  approve  of  anything,  or  any  creature, 
till  assured  they  were  quite  the  ton.  He  had  danced  attend- 
ance for  some  time  on  Lady  Euphrasia,  and  she  encouraged 
his  assiduities  in  hopes  of  effecting  a change  in  Lord  Morti- 
mer’s manner.  But  had  his  lordship  even  been  a passiona»te 
lover,  poor  Freelove  was  not  calculated  to  inspire  him  with 
jealousy.  I declare,”  continued  he,  surveying  Amanda 
through  an  opera-glass  which  dangled  from  his  button-hole,  “ if 
her  father  has  nothing  to  support  him  but  the  hope  of  her 
making  a conquest  of  importance,  he  will  be  in  a sad  way, 
for,  ’pon  my  soul,  I can  see  nothing  the  girl  has  to  recom- 
mend her,  except  novelty ; and  that,  you  know,  is  a charm 
which  will  lessen  every  day.  All  she  can  possibly  expect,  is 
an  establishment  for  a few  months  with  some  tasteless  being 
who  may  like  the  simplicity  of  her  country  look.” 

‘‘  And  more  than  she  merits,”  exclaimed  Miss  Malcolm  ; ‘‘  I 
have  no  patience  with  such  creatures  forcing  themselves  into 
society  quite  above  them.” 

“ I assure  you,”  said  Lady  Euphrasia,  you  would  be  as- 
tonished at  her  vanity  and  conceit,  if  you  knew  her.  She  con- 
siders herself  a first-rate  beauty,  though  positively  any  one  may 
see  she  is  quite  the  reverse,  and  pretends  to  the  greatest  gentle- 
ness and  simplicity.  Then  she  has  made  some  strange  kind 
of  people  (to  be  sure  they  must  be)  believe  she  is  accom- 
plished ; though,  I dare  say,  if  she  can  read  tolerably,  and 
scrawl  out  a decent  letter,  ’tis  the  utmost  she  can  do.” 

We  will  quiz  her  after  dinner  about  her  accomplishments,’* 
said  Freelove,  “ and  have  a little  fun  with  her.” 

‘‘Ay,  do,”  cried  Miss  Malcolm.  “We  will  ask  her  to  play 
«.nd  sing,”  said  her  ladyship ; “ for  I assure  you  she  pretends: 


THE  CHILDREN  OE  THE  ABBEY. 


211 


t©  excel  in  both  ; though,  from  her  father’s  poverty,  I am  cer- 
tain she  can  know  little  of  either.  I shall  enjoy  her  confusion 
of  all  things,  when  her  ignorance  is  detected.” 

Whilst  this  conversation  was  passing,  Amanda,  in  convers- 
ing with  Lady  Araminta,  experienced  the  purest  pleasure.  Her 
ladyship  was  the  ‘‘softened  image  ” of  Lord  Mortimer.  Hei 
voice  was  modulated  to  the  same  harmony  as  his,  and  Amanda 
gazed  and  listened  with  rapture.  On  her  confusion  abating, 
her  eye  had  wandered  round  the  room  in  quest  of  his  lordship, 
but  he  was  not  in  it.  At  every  stir,  near  the  door,  her  heart 
fluttered  at  the  idea  of  seeing  him  ; nor  was  this  idea  relin^ 
quished  till  summoned  to  dinner.  She  fortunately  procured  a 
seat  next  Lady  Araminta,  which  prevented  her  thinking  the 
time  spent  at  dinner  tedious.  In  the  evening  the  rooms  were 
crowded  with  company,  but  Lord  Mortimer  appeared  not  among 
the  brilliant  assembly.  Yet  the  pang  of  disappointment  was 
softened  to  Amanda  by  his  absence,  intimating  that  he  was  not 
anxious  for  the  society  of  Lady  Euphrasia.  True,  business,  or 
a prior  engagement,  might  have  prevented  his  coming  ; but  she, 
as  is  natural,  fixed  on  the  idea  most  flattering  to  herself. 

Lady  Euphrasia,  in  pursuance  of  the  plan  laid  against  Aman- 
da, led  the  way  to  the  music-room,  attended  by  a large  party  ; 
as  Freelove  had  intimated  to  some  of  the  beaux  and  belles,  her 
ladyship  and  he  were  going  to  quiz  an  ignorant  Irish  country 
girl.  Lady  Euphrasia  sat  down  to  the  harpsichord,  that  she 
might  have  a better  pretext  for  asking  Amanda  to  play.  Free- 
love seated  himself  by  the  latter,  and  began  a conversation 
which,  he  thought,  would  effectually  embarrass  her ; but  it  had 
quite  a contrary  effect,  rendering  him  so  extremely  ridiculous 
as  to  excite  a universal  laugh  at  his  expense. 

Amanda  soon  perceived  his  intention  in  addressing  her ; 
and,  also,  that  Lady  Euphrasia  and  Miss  Malcolm  were  privy 
to  it,  having  caught  the  significant  looks  which  passed  among 
them.  Though  tremblingly  alive  to  every  feeling  of  modesty, 
she  had  too  much  sense,  and  real  nobleness  of  soul,  to  allow 
the  illiberal  sallies  of  impertinence  to  divest  her  of  composure. 

“ Have  you  seen  any  of  the  curiosities  of  London,  my  dear  ? ” 
exclaimed  Freelove,  lolling  back  in  his  chair,  and  contemplating 
the  lustre  of  his  buckles,  unconscious  of  the  ridicule  he  excited. 

“ I think  I have,”  said  Amanda,  somewhat  archly,  and 
glancing  at  him,  “ quite  an  original  in  its  kind.”  Her  look,  as 
well  as  the  emphasis  on  her  words,  excited  another  laugh  at  his 
expense,  which  threw  him  into  a momentary  confusion. 

“ I think,”  said  he,  as  he  recovered  from  it,  “ the  Monu- 


2T2 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


ment  and  the  Tower  would  be  prodigious  fine  sights  to  you,  and 
I make  it  a particular  request  that  I may  be  included  in  your 
party  whenever  you  visit  them,  particularly  the  last  place.” 

‘‘  And  why,”  replied  Amanda,  should  I take  the  trouble  of 
visiting  wild  beasts,  when  every  day  I may  see  animals  equally 
strange,  and  not  half  so  mischievous  ? ” 

Freelove,  insensible  as  he  was,  could  not  mistake  the  mean- 
ing of  Amanda’s  words,  and  he  left  her  with  a mortified  air, 
being,  to  use  his  own  phrase,  ‘‘  completely  done  up.” 

Lady  Euphrasia,  now  rising  from  the  harpsichord,  requested 
Amanda  to  take  her  place  at  it,  saying,  with  an  ironical  air, 
her  performance  (which  indeed  was  shocking)  would  make 
hers  appear  to  amazing  advantage.” 

Diffident  of  her  own  abilities,  Amanda  begged  to  be  excused. 
But  when  Miss  Malcolm,  with  an  earnestness  even  oppressive, 
joined  her  entreaties  to  Lady  Euphrasia’s  she  could  no  longer 
refuse. 

‘‘  I suppose,”  said  her  ladyship,  following  her  to  the  instru- 
ment, ‘‘  these  songs,”  presenting  her  some  trifling  ones,  will 
answer  you  better  than  the  Italian  music  before  you  ? ” 

Amanda  made  no  reply,  but  turned  over  the  leaves,  of  the 
book  to  a lesson  much  more  difficult  than  that  Lady  Euphrasia 
had  played.  Her  touch  at  first  was  tremulous  and  weak,  but 
she  was  too  susceptible  of  the  powers  of  harmony  not  soon  to 
be  inspired  by  it ; and  gradually  her  style  became  so  masterly 
and  elegant,  as  to  excite  universal  admiration,  except  in  the 
bosoms  of  those  who  had  hoped  to  place  her  in  a ludicrous 
situation.  Their  invidious  scheme,  instead  of  depressing,  had 
only  served  to  render  excellence  conspicuous  ; and  that  morti- 
fication they  destined  for  another,  fell  upon  themselves.  When 
the  lesson  was  concluded,  some  gentlemen  who  either  were,  or 
pretended  to  be,  musical  connoisseurs,  entreated  her  to  sing. 
She  chose  a plaintive  Italian  air,  and  the  exquisite  taste  ana 
sweetness  with  which  she  sung,  equally  astonished  and  delighted. 
Nor  was  admiration  confined  to  the  accomplishments  she  dis- 
played. The  soft  expression  of  her  countenance,  which  seemed 
accordant  to  the  harmonious  sounds  that  issued  from  her  lips, 
was  viewed  with  pleasure,  and  praised  with  energy ; and  she 
rose  from  the  harpsichord  covered  with  blushes  from  the  ap- 
plause which  stole  around  her.  The  gentlemen  gathered  around 
Lady  Euphrasia,  to  inquire  who  the  beautiful  stranger  was,  and 
she  gave  them  pretty  much  the  same  account  she  had  already 
done  to  Miss  Malcolm. 

The  rage  and  disappointment  of  that  young  lady,  and  her 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


213 


iadyship,  could  scarcely  be  concealed.  “ I declare,  I never  knew 
anything  so  monstrously  absurd,’'  exclaimed  Lady  Euphrasia, 
as  to  let  a girl  in  her  situation  learn  such  things,  except,  in- 
deed, it  was  to  qualify  her  for  a governess,  or  an  opera  singer.” 

‘‘  Ay,  I suppose,”  said  Miss  Malcolm,  “ we  shall  soon  hear 
her  quavering  away  at  one  of  the  theatres  ; for  no  person  of 
fashion  would  really  intrust  her  children  to  so  confident  a 
creature.” 

The  fair  object  of  their  disquietude  gladly  accompanied 
Lady  Araminta  into  another  room.  Several  gentlemen  followed, 
and  crowded  about  her  chair,  offering  that  adulation  which  they 
were  accustomed  to  find  acceptable  at  the  shrine  of  beauty. 
To  Amanda,  however,  it  was  irksome,  not  only  from  its  absurd 
extravagance,  but  as  it  interrupted  her  conversation  with  Lady 
Araminta.  The  marchioness,  however,  who  critically  watched 
her  motions,  soon  relieved  her  from  the  troublesome  assiduities 
of  the  beaux,  by  placing  them  at  card-tables.  Not,  indeed, 
from  any  good-natured  motive,  but  she  could  not  bear  that 
Amanda  should  have  so  much  attention  paid  her,  and  flattered 
herself  she  would  be  vexed  by  losing  it. 

In  the  course  of  conversation,  Lady  Araminta  mentioned 
Ireland.  She  had  a faint  remembrance  of  Castle  Carberry,  she 
said,  and  had  been  half  tempted  to  accompany  the  marquis  and 
his  family  in  their  late  excursion.  Her  brother,  she  added,  had 
almost  made  her  promise  to  visit  the  castle  with  him  the  ensu- 
ing summer.  “You  have  seen  Lord  Mortimer,  to  be  sure  ” 
continued  her  ladyship. 

“ Yes,, madam,”  faltered  Amanda,  while  her  face  was  over- 
spread with  a crimson  hue.  Her  ladyship  was  too  penetrating 
not  to  perceive  her  confusion,  and  it  gave  rise  to  a conjecture 
of  something  more  than  a slight  acquaintance  being  betweein 
his  lordship  and  Amanda.  The  melancholy  he  had  betrayed* 
on  his  return  from  Ireland  had  excited  the  raillery  of  her  lady- 
ship, till  convinced,  by  the  discomposure  he  showed  whenever 
she  attempted  to  inquire  into  the  occasion  of  it,  that-  it  proceeded 
from  a source  truly  interesting  to  his  feelings.  She  knew'  of 
the  alliance  her  father  had  projected  for  him  waih  the  Roslin 
family — a project  she  never  approved  of,  for  Lady  Euphrasia 
W'as  truly  disagreeable  to  her  ; and  a soul  like  Mortimer’s,  ten- 
der, liberal,  and  sincere,  she  knew  could  never  experience  the 
smallest  degree  of  happiness  with  a being  so  uncongenial  in 
every  respect  as  was  Lady  Euphrasia  to  him.  She  loved  her 
brother  with  the  truest  tenderness,  and  secretly  believed  he  was 
attached  in  Ireland.  She  wished  to  gain  his  confidence,  yet 
would  not  solicit  it  because  she  knew  she  had  it  not  in  her 


214 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  .. 


power  essentially  to  serve  him.  Her  arguments,  she  was  con- 
vinced, would  have  little  weight  with  Lord  Cherbury,  who  had 
often  expressed  to  her  his  anxiety  for  a connection  with  the 
Roslin  family.  With  the  loveliness  of  Amanda’s  person,  with 
the  elegance  of  her  manner,  she  was  immediately  charmed.  As 
she  conversed  with  her,  esteem  was  added  to  admiration,  and 
she  believed  that  Mortimer  would  not  have  omitted  mentioning 
to  her  the  beautiful  daughter  of  his  father’s  agent,  had  he  not 
feared  betraying  too  much  emotion  at  her  name.  She  appeared 
to  Lady  Araminta  just  the  kind  of  woman  he  would  adore  ; just 
the  being  that  would  answer  all  the  ideas  of  perfection  (roman- 
tic ideas  she  had  called  them)  which  he  had  declared  necessary 
to  captivate  his  heart.  Lady  Araminta  already  felt  for  her  un- 
speakable tenderness.  In  the  softness  of  her  locks,  in  the 
sweetness  of  her  voice,  there  were  resistless  charms  ; and  she 
felt,  that  if  oppressed  by  sorrow,  Amanda  Fitzalan,  above  all 
other  beings,  was  the  one  she  would  select  to  give  her  consola- 
tion. The  confusion  she  betrayed  at  the  mention  of  Mortimer, 
made  her  ladyship  suspect  she  was  the  cause  of  his  dejection. 
She  involuntarily  fastened  her  eyes  upon  her  face,  as  if  to  pen- 
etrate the  recesses  of  her  heart,  yet  with  a tenderness  which 
seemed  to  say  she  would  pity  the  secret  she  might  then  discover. 

Lord  Cherbury,  at  this  moment  of  embarrassment  to 
Amanda,  approached.  He  said,  “ He  had  just  been  making  a 
request,  and  an  apology  to  Lady  Greystock,  and  was  now  come 
to  repeat  them  to  her.  The  former  was,  to  meet  the  marquis’s 
family  at  his  house  the  next  day  at  dinner ; and  the  latter  was, 
to  excuse  so  unceremonious  an  invitation,  which  he  had  been 
induced  to  make  on  Lady  Araminta’s  account,  who  was  obligved 
to  leave  town  the  day  after  the  next,  and  had,  therefore,  no  time 
for  the  usual  etiquette  of  visiting.” 

Amanda  bowed.  This  invitation  was  more  pleasing  than 
one  of  more  form  would  have  been.  It  seemed  to  indicate 
friendship,  and  a desire  to  have  the  intimacy  between  her  and 
his  daughter  cultivated.  It  gave  her  also  a hope  of  seeing  Lord 
Mortimer.  All  these  suggestions  inspired  her  with  unoommoii 
animation,  and  she  entered  into  a lively  conversation  with  Lord 
Cherbury,  who  had  infinite  vivacity  in  his  look  ana  manner. 
Lady  Araminta  observed  the  attention  he  paid  her  with  pleas- 
ure. A prepossession  in  her  favor,  she  trusted,  might  produce 
pleasing  consequences. 

Lady  Greystock  at  length  rose  to  depart.  Amanda  received 
an  affectionate  adieu  from  Lady  Araminta  ; and  Lord  Cherbury 
attended  the  ladies  to  their  carriage.  On  driving  off.  Lady 
Greystock  observed,  what  a charming:  polite  man  his  lordship 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  1 HE  ABBEY. 


2[?r 


was ; and,  *.n  short,  threw  out  such  hints,  and  entered  into  such 
a warm  eulogium  on  his  merits,  that  Amanda  began  to  think  he 
would  not  iind  it  very  difficult  to  prevail  on  her  ladyship  to 
enter  once  more  the  temple  of  Hymen, 

Amanda  retired  to  her  chamber  in  a state  of  greater  hap- 
piness than  for  a long  period  before  she  had  experienced  ; bu.^ 
it  was  a happiness  which  rather  agitated  than  soothed  the  feel 
ings,  particularly  hers,  which  were  so  susceptible  of  every  in) 
pression,  that 

“ They  turned  at  the  touch  of  joy  or  woe, 

And  turning  trembled  too.’’ 

Her  present  happiness  was  the  offspring  of  hope,  and  there- 
fore peculiarly  liable  to  disappointment ; a hope  derived  from 
the  attention  of  Lord  Cherbury,  and  the  tenderness  of  Lady 
Araminta,  that  the  fond  wishes  of  her  heart  might  yet  be 
realized  ; wishes,  again  believed  from  hearing  of  Lord  Mor 
timer’s  dejection,  which  his  sister  had  touched  upon,  and  from 
his  absenting  himself  from  the  marquis’s,  which  were  not  un- 
congenial to  those  he  himself  entertained.  She  sat  down  to 
acquaint  her  fa  her  with  the  particulars  of  the  day  she  had 
passed  : for  her  chief  consolation  in  her  absence  from  him,  was, 
in  the  idea  of  writing  and  hearing  constantly.  Her  writing 
finished,  she  sat  by  the  fire,  meditating  on  the  interview  she 
expected  would  take  place  on  the  ensuing  day,  till  the  hoarse 
voice  of  the  watchmen,  proclaiming  past  three  o’clock,  roused 
her  front  her  reverie.  She  smiled  at  the  abstraction  of  her 
thoughts,  and  retired  to'  bed  to  dream  of  felicity. 

So  calm  were  her  slumbers — so  delightful  her  dreams — that 
Sol  had  long  shot  his  timorous  ray  into  her  chamber  ere  she 
awoke.  Her  spirits  still  continued  serene  and  animated.  On 
descending  to  the  drawing-room,  she  found  Lady  Greystock  just 
entering  it.  After  breakfast,  they  went  out  in  her  ladyship’s 
carriage  to  different  parts  of  the  town.  All  was  new  to  Amanda, 
who,  during  her  former  residence  in  it,  had  been  entirely  con- 
fined to  lodgings  in  a retired  street.  She  wondered  at,  and  was 
amused  by,  the  crowds  continually  passing  and  repassing. 
About  four  they^  returned  to  dress.  Amanda  began  the  labors 
of  the  toilet  with  a beating  heart ; nor  were  its  quick  pulsations 
decreased  on  entering  Lady  Greystock’s  carriage,  which  in  a 
few  minutes  conveyed  her  to  Lord  Cherbury’s  house  in  St. 
James’s  Square.  She  followed  her  ladyship  with  tottering  steps  ; 
and  the  first  object  she  saw  on  entering  the  drawing-room  was 
Mortimer  standing  near  the  door. 


3i6 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

“ Begone  my  cares ; I give  you  to  the  winds.” — Rowe. 

In  the  drawing-room  were  already  assembled  the  marquis, 
marchioness,  Lady  Euphrasia,  Miss  Malcolm,  and  Freelove-, 
Lady  Araminta  perceived  in  the  hesitating  voice  of  Amanda 
the  emotions  which  agitated  her,  and  which  were  not  diminished 
when  Lord  Cherbury,  taking  her  trembling  hand,  said — 

Mortimer,  I presume  you  have  alread}^  seen  Miss  Fitzalan 
in  Ireland  ? ’’ 

I have,  my  lord,”  replied  Mortimer,  bowing,  and  at  the 
same  time  approaching  to  pay  his  compliments. 

Every  e3^e  in  the  room,  except  Lord  Cherbury ’s  and  Free- 
love’s,  was  now  turned  upon  his  lordship  and  Amanda,  and 
thought,  in  the  expressive  countenances  of  both,  enough  could 
be  read  to  confirm  their  suspicions  of  a mutual  attachment  sub- 
sisting between  them. 

Amanda,  when  seated,  endeavored  to  recover  from  her  con- 
fusion. Miss  Malcolm,  to  prevent  Lord  Mortimer’s  taking  a 
seat  by  her,  which  she  thought  she  perceived  him  inclined  to 
do,  beckoned  him  to  her,  and  contrived  to  engage  him  in  tri- 
fling chat,  till  they  were  summoned  to  dinner.  On  receiving  his 
hand,  which  he  could  not  avoid  offering,  to  lead  her  to  the  par- 
lor, she  cast  a look  of  exultation  at  Amanda.  Lady  Araminta, 
perceiving  all  the  gentlemen  engaged,  good-humoredly  put  her 
arm  within  Amanda’s,  and  said  she  would  be  her  chaperon  on 
the  present  occasion.  Lord  Mortimer  quitted  MLss  Malcolm 
the  moment  he  had  procured  her  a seat,  though  she  desired 
him  to  take  one  between  her  and  Lady  Euphrasia,  and,  passing 
to  the  other  side,  placed  himself  by  Amanda.  This  action 
pleased  her  as  much  as  it  mortified  them.  It  emoarrassed  her, 
however,  a little  ; but  perceiving  the  scrutinizing  earnestness 
with  which  the  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia  regarded  her, 
she  exerted  her  spirits,  and  was  soon  able  to  join  in  the  general 
conversation  which  Lord  Mortimer  promoted. 

The  unexpected  arrival  of  Amanda  in  London  astonished, 
and,  notwithstanding  his  resentment,  delighted  him.  His  sister, 
when  they  were  alone  in  the  morning,  had  mentioned  her  with 
all  the  fervency  of  Braise  Her  plaudits  gave  to  him  a 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


217 

tion  of  satisfied  pride,  which  convinced  him  he  was  not  less 
than  ever  interested  about  Amanda.  Since  his  return  from 
Ireland,  he  had  been  distracted  by  incertitude  and  anxiety 
about  her.  The  innocence,  the  purity,  the  tenderness  she  had 
displayed,  were  perpetually  recurring  to  his  memory.  It  was 
impossible,  he  thought,  they  could  be  feigned,  and  he  began  to 
think  the  apparent  mystery  of  her  conduct  she  could  have  sat- 
isfactorily explained  — that  designedly  she  had  not  avoided 
him — and  that,  but  for  the  impetuosity  of  his  own  passions, 
which  had  induced  his  precipitate  departure,  he  might,  ere  this, 
have  had  all  his  doubts  removed.  Tortured  with  incessant 
regret  for  this  departure,  he  would  have  returned  immediately 
to  Ireland  but  at  this  period  found  it  impossible  to  do  so,  with- 
out exciting  inquiries  from  Lord  Cherbury,  which,  at  present, 
he  did  not  choose  to  answer.  He  had  planned  ait  excursion 
thither  the  ensuing  summer  with  Lady  Araminta,  determined 
no  longer  to  endure  his  suspense.  He  now  aliriost  believed 
the  peculiar  interposition  of  Providence  had  brought  xA^manda 
to  town,  thus  affording  him  another  opportunity  of  having  his 
anxiety  relieved,  and  the  chief  obstacle,  perhaps  to  his,  and  he 
flattered  himself  also,  to  her  happiness,  removed  ; for,  if  as- 
sured her  precipitate  journey  from  Wales  was  occasioned  by  no 
motive  she  need  blush  to  avow,  he  felt  he  should  be  better  en- 
abled to  combat  the  difficulties  he  was  convinced  his  father 
would  throw  in  the  way  of  their  union.  Notwithstanding  Lady 
Araminta’s  endeavors  to  gain  his  implicit  confidence,  he  resolved 
to  withhold  it  from  her,  lest  she  should  incur  even  the  tempo- 
ary  displeasure  of  Lord  Cherbury,  by  the  warm  interest  he 
knew  she  would  take  in  his  affairs,  if  once  informed  of  them. 

Amanda  looked  thinner  and  paler  than  when  he  had  seen 
her  in  Ireland — yet,  if  possible,  more  interesting  from  these 
circumstances ; and,  frorn  the  soft  glance  she  had  involuntarily 
directed  towards  him  at  her  entrance,  he  was  tempted  to  tlijink 
ne  had,  in  some  degree,  contributed  to  rob  her  lovely  cheek  of 
its  bloom  ; and  this  idea  rendered  her  dearer  than  ever  to  him. 
Scarcely  could  he  restrain  the  rapture  he  felt  on  seeing  her 
within  the  necessary  bounds  ; scarcely  could  he  believe  the 
scene  which  had  given  rise  to  his  happiness  real.  His  heart, 
at  the  moment  melting  with  tenderness,  sighed  for  the  period 
of  explanation,  which  he  trusted,  which  he  hoped,  would  also 
be  the  period  of  reconciliation. 

The  gentlemen  joined  the  ladies  about  teatime,  and  as  no 
additional  company  was  expected.  Lady  Euphrasia  proposed  a 
party  to  the  Pantheon.  This  was  at  once  agreed  to.  Amanda 


2i8 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


was  delighted  at  the  proposal,  as  it  not  only  promised  to  grat- 
ify her  curiosity,  but  to  give  Lord  Mortimer  an  opportunity 
of  addressing  her,  as  she  saw  he  wished,  but  vainly  attempted, 
at  home.  The  marquis  and  Lord  Cherbury  declined  going. 
Lady  Greystock,  who  had  not  ordered  her  carriage  till  a much 
iarcr  hour,  accepted  a place  in  the  marchioness’s. 

Neither  Lady  Euphrasia  nor  Miss  Malcolm  could  bear  the 
iaea  of  Lord  Mortimer  and  Amanda  going  in  the  same  carriage, 
cis  the  presence  of  Lady  Araminta,  they  were  convinced,  w^ould 
not  prevent  their  using  an  opportunity  so  propitious  for  con- 
versing as  they  wished.  Lady  Euphrasia,  therefore,  with  sud- 
den eagerness,  declared  she  and  Miss  Malcolm  would  resign 
their  seats  in  the  marchioness’s  carriage  to  Miss  Fitzal^n  and 
Ereelove  for  the  pleasure  of  accompanying  Lady  Araminta  in 
hers.  The  marchioness,  who  conjectured  her  daughter’s  motive 
for  this  new  arrangement,  seconded  it,  to  the  secret  regret  of 
Amanda,  arid  the  visible  chagrin  of  Lord  Mortimer.  Amanda, 
however,  consoled  herself  for  this  disappointment,  by  reflecting 
on  the  pleasure  she  should  enjoy  in  a few  minutes,  when  freed 
from  the  disagreeable  observation  of  the  marchioness  and  Lady 
Euphrasia  ; her  reflections  were  not  in  the  least  interrupted  by 
any  conversation  being  addressed  to  her.  The  marchioness 
and  Lady  Greystock  chatted  together,  and  Ereelove  amused 
himself  humming  a song,  as  if  for  the  purpose  of  mortifying 
Amanda  by  his  inattention.  When  the  carriage  stopped,  he 
assisted  the  former  ladies  out ; but  as  if  forgetting  such  a being 
existed  as  Amanda,  he  went  on  with  them.  She  was  descend- 
ing the  steps  when  Lord  Mortimer  pressed  forward,  and 
snatching  her  hand,  softly  exclaimed  : “ We  have  met  again, 
and  neither  envy  nor  malice  shall  again  separate  us.”  A 
beautiful  glow  overspread  the  countenance  of  Amanda : her 
hand  trembled  in  his,  and  she  felt,  in  that  moment,  recom- 
pensed for  her  former  disappointment,  and  elevated  above  the 
little  insolence  of  Ereelove.  Lord  Mortimer  handed  her  to  his 
sister,  who  was  waiting  to  receive  her,  and  they  proceeded  to 
the  room.  Lady  Euphrasia  entered  it  with  a temper  unfitted  for 
en  joyment.  She  was  convinced  the  whole  soul  of  Mortimer 
was  devoted  to  Amanda,  and  she  trembled  from  the  violent  and 
malignant  feelings  that  conviction  excited.  From  the  moment 
he  entered  the  carriage  till  he  quitted  it  he  had  remained  silent, 
notwithstanding  all  her  efforts  and  Miss  Malcolm’s  to  force 
him  into  conversation.  He  left  them  as  soon  as  they  reached 
the  Pantheon  to  watch  the  marchioness’s  carriage,  which  fol- 
lowed theirs,  and  on  rejoining  Amanda  he  attached  himself  en- 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


219 


tirely  to  her,  without  any  longer  appearing  anxious  to  conceal 
h.\s  p-»'edielction  for  her.  He  had,  indeed,  forgotten  the  necessity 
there  was  for  concealing  it ; all  his  feelings,  all  his  ideas,  were 
engrossed  by  ecstasy  and  tenderness.  The  novelty,  the  brilliancy 
of  the  scene,  excited  surprise  and  pleasure  in  Amanda,  and  he 
was  delighted  with  the  animated  description  she  gave  of  the 
effect  it  produced  upon  her  mind.  In  her  he  found  united,  ex- 
alted sense,  lively  fancy,  and  an  uncorrupted  taste  : he  forgot 
that  the  eyes  of  jealousy  and  malevolence  were  on  them  ; he 
forgot  every  object  but  herself. 

But,  alas ! poor  Amanda  was  doomed  to  disappointment 
this  evening.  Lady  Greystock,  according  to  a hint  she  had 
received,  after  a few  rounds,  stepped  up  to  her,  and  declared 
she  must  accompany  her  to  a seat,  as  she  was  convinced  her 
health  was  yet  too  weak  to  bear  much  fatigue.  Amanda  as- 
sured her  she  was  not  in  the  least  fatigued,  and  that  she  would 
prefer  walking ; besides,  she  had  half-promised  Lord  Mortimer 
to  dance  with  him.  This  Lady  Greystock  absolutely  declared 
she  would  not  consent  to,  though  Lady  Araminta,  on  whose 
arm  Amanda  leaned,  pleaded  for  her  friend,  assuring  her  lady- 
ship “ she  would  take  care  Miss  Fitzalan  should  not  injure 
herself.” 

“ Ah,  you  young  people,”  suid  Lady  Greystock,  “ are  so 
carried  away  with  spirits,  you  never  reflect  on  consequences  ; 
but  I declare,  as  she  is  intrusted  to  my  care,  I could  not 
answer  it  to  my  conscience  to  let  her  run  into  any  kind  of 
danger.” 

Lady  Araminta  remonstrated  with  her  ladyship,  and  Aman- 
da would  have  joined,  but  that  she  feared  her  real  motive  for 
doing  so  would  have  been  discovered.  She  perceived  the  party 
were  detained  from  proceeding  on  her  account,  and  immedi- 
ately offered  her  arm  to  Lady  Greystock,  and  accompanied  her 
-And  the  marchioness  to  a seat.  Lady  Euphrasia,  Catching 
’^.old  of  Lady  Araminta’s  arm,  hurried  her,  at  the  same  instant, 
into  the  crowd  ; and  Miss  Malcolm,  as  if  by  chance,  laid  her 
hand  on  Lord  Mortimer,  and  thus  compelled  him  to  attend  her 
party.  She  saw  him,  however,  in  the  course  of  the  round, 
prepared  to  fly  off ; but  when  they  had  completed  it,  to  her 
inexpressible  joy,  the  situation  of  Amanda  made  him  relin- 
quish his  intention,  as  to  converse  with  her  was  utterly  impos- 
sible ; for  the  marchioness  had  placed  her  between  Lady  Grey- 
stock and  herself,  and,  under  the  pretence  of  frequently  ad- 
dressing her  ladyship,  was  continually  leaning  across  Amanda, 
so  as  to  exclude  her  almost  from  observation,  thus  rendering  her 


220 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.' 


situation,  exclusive  of  the  regret  at  being  separated  from  Lord 
Mortimer  and  Lady  Araminta,  highly  disagreeable.  The 
marchioness  enjoyed  a malicious  joy  in  the  uneasiness  she  saw 
she  gave  Amanda.  She  deemed  it  but  a slight  retaliation  for 
the  uneasiness  she  had  given  Lady  Euphrasia — a trifling  pun- 
ishment for  the  admiration  she  had  excited. 

Amanda,  indeed,  whilst  surveying  the  scene  around  her  with 
wonder  and  delight,  had  herself  been  an  object  of  critical  at- 
tention and  inquiry.  She  was  followed,  universally  admired, 
and  allowed  to  be  the  finest  girl  that  had  appeared  for  a long 
season.  • 

Relieved  of  her  presence.  Lady  Euphrasia’s  spirits  began  to 
revive,  and  her  good-humor  to  return.  She  laughed  maliciously 
with  Miss  Malcolm  at  the  disappointment  of  Lord  Mortimer 
and  Amanda.  After  a few  rounds.  Sir  Charles  Bingley,  in 
company  with  another  gentleman,  passed  them.  Lie  was,  to 
use  Miss  Malcolm’s  own  phrase,  an  immense  favorite  with 
her,”  and  she  had  long  meditated  and  attempted  the  conquest 
of  his  heart.  The  attention  which  politeness  obliged  him  to 
show,  and  the  compliments  she  sometimes  compelled  him  to 
pay,  she  flattered  herself,  were  intimations  of  the  success  of  her 
scheme.  Lady  Euphrasia,  notwithstanding  her  intentions  rela- 
tive to  Lord  Mortimer,  and  her  professed  friendship  for  Miss 
Malcolm,  felt  an  ardent  desire  to  have  Sir  Charles  enrolled  in 
the  list  of  her  admirers,  and  both  ladies  determined  he  should 
not  again  pass  without  noticing  them.  They  accordingly 
watched  his  approach,  and  when  they  again  met  addressed  him 
in  a manner  that,  to  a man  at  all  interested  about  either, 
would  have  been  truly  flattering.  As  this,  however,  was  not 
the  young  baronet’s  case,  after  paying  his  compliments  in  a 
general  way  to  the  whole  party,  he  was  making  his  parting  bow, 
when  his  companion,  pulling  him  by  the  sleeve,  bid  him  observe  a 
beautiful  girl  sitting  opposite  to  them.  They  had  stopped  near 
the  marchioness’s  seat,  and  it  was  to  Amanda  Sir  Charles’s  eyes 
were  directed. 

“ Gracious  heaven  i ” cried  he,  starting,  while  his  cheek  was  . 
suffused  with  a glow  of  pleasure  ; ‘‘  can  this  be  possible } Can 
this  in  reality,”  advancing  to  her  seat,  be  Miss  Fitzalan  ? 
This  surely,”  continued  he,  “ is  a meeting  as  fortunate  as  unex- 
pected. But  for  it,  I should  have  been  posting  back  to  Ireland 
in  a day  or  two.” 

Amanda  blushed  deeply  at  his  thus  publicly  declaring  her 
power  of  regulating  his  actions.  Her  confusion  restored  that 
recollection  his  joyful  surprise  had  deprived  him  of,  and  he 


THE  CHILD R EH  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


221 


addressed  the  marchioness  and  Lady  Greystock.  The  ivJ*mer 
haughtily  bowed,  without  speaking  ; and  the  latter,  laughing 
significan,tly,  said,  ‘‘  she  really  imagined  ecstasy  on  Miss 
Fitzalan’s  account  had  made  him  forget  any  one  else  was  pres- 
ent.” The  situation  of  Amanda  was  tantalizing  in  an  extreme 
degree  to  Sir  Charles.  It  precluded  all  conversation,  and  fre- 
quently hid  her  from  his  view,  as  the  marchioness  and  Lady 
Greystock  still  continued  their  pretended  whispers.  Sir  Charles 
had  some  knowledge  of  the  marchioness’s  disposition,  and 
quickly  perceived  the  motive  of  her  present  conduct. 

‘‘Your  ladyship  is  kind,”  said  he,  “in  trying  to  hide  Miss 
Fitzalan,  as  no  doubt  you  are  conscious  ’tis  not  a slight  heart- 
ache she  would  give  to  some  of  the  belles  present  this  evening. 
But  why,”  continued  he,  turning  to  Amanda,  “ do  you  prefer 
sitting  to  walking  ? ” 

Amanda  made  no  answer;  but  a glance  from  her  expressive 
eyes  to  the  ladies  informed  him  of  the  reason. 

Lady  Euphrasia  and  Miss  Malcolm,  provoked  at  the  abrupt 
departure  of  Sir  Charles,  had  hurried  on  ; but  scarcely  had  they 
proceeded  a few  yards  ere  envy  and  curiosity  induced  them  to 
turn  back.  Lady  Araminta  perceived  their  chagrin,  and  secret- 
ly enjoyed  it.  Sir  Charles,  who  had  been  looking  impatiently 
for  their  approach,  the  moment  he  perceived  them,  entreated 
Amanda  to  join  them. 

“ Let  me,”  cried  he,  presenting  his  hand,  “ be  your  knight 
on  the  present  occasion,  and  deliver  you  from  what  may  be 
called  absolute  captivity.” 

She  hesitated  not  to  accept  his  offer.  The  continual  buzz 
in  the  room,  with  the  passing  and  repassing  of  the  company, 
had  made  her  head  giddy.  She*  deemed  no  apology  requisite 
to  her  companions  ; and,  quitting  her  seat,  hastened  forward 
to  Lady  Araminta,  who  had  stopped  for  her.  A crowd  a? . 
that  moment,  intervening  between  them,  retarded  her  progress. 
Sir  Charles,  pressing  her  hand  with  fervor,  availed  himself  of 
this  opportunity  to  express  his  pleasure  at  their  unexpected 
meeting. 

“ A.h  ! how  little,”  cried  he,  “ did  I imagine  there  was  such 
happiness  in  store  for  me  tli  evenirg.” 

“ Sir  Charles,”  said  Amiuda,  erdeavoring,  though  in  vain, 
to  withdraw  her  hand,  “ you  have  learned  the  art  of  flattering 
since  your  return  to  England.” 

“ I wish,”  cried  he,  “ I had  learned  the  art  of  expressing,  as 
I wish,  the  sentiments  I feel.” 

Lord  Mortimer,  who  had  made  way  through  the  crowd  for 


222 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


the  ladies,  at  this  instant  appeared.  He  seemed  to  recoil  at 
the  situation  of  Amanda,  whose  hand  was  yet  detained  in  Sir 
Charles’s,  while  the  soft  glow  and  confusion  of  her  face  gave  at 
least  a suspicionof  the  language  she  was  listening  to. 

On  rejoining  the  party  she  hoped  again  to  have  been  joined 
b}^  Lord  Mortimer  ; but,  even  if  inclined  for  this.  Sir  Charles 
totally  prevented  him.  His  lordship  deserted  them,  yet  almost 
continually  contrived  to  intercept  the  party,  and  his  eyes  were 
always  turned  on  Amanda  and  Sn  Charles.  He  was  really  dis- 
pleased with  her.  He  thought  she  might  as  well  have  left  her 
seat  before  as  after  Sir  Charles’s  appearance,  and  he  resolved 
to  watch  her  closely.  She  was  asked  to  dance  by  Sir  Charles, 
and  several  other  gentlemen,  but  refused,  and  Lady  Aramint'a, 
on  her  account,  followed  her  example.  Lady  Euphrasia  and 
Miss  Malcolm  either  wefe  too  much  discomposed,  or  not  asked 
by  gentlemen  they  liked,  to  join  the  festive  group. 

Amanda,  from  being  disappointed,  soon  grew  languid,  and 
endeavored  to  check,  with  more  than  usual  seriousness,  the 
ardent  expressions  of  Sir  Charles,  who  repeatedly  declared,  “ he 
had  hurried  over  the  affairs  which  brought  him  to  England 
entirely  on  her  account,  as  he  thought  every  day  an  age  until 
they  again  met.” 

She  was  rejoiced  when  Lady  Araminta  proposed  returning 
home.  Lady  Euphrasia  and  Miss  Malcolm  had  no  longer  a 
desire  to  accompany  her  ladyship,  as  they  believed  Lord  Mor- 
timer already  gone,  and  she  and  Amanda  therefore  returned 
alone.  Sir  Charles  was  invited  to  supper,  an  invitation  he  joy- 
fully accepted,  and  promised  to  follow  her  ladyship  as  soon  as 
he  had  apprised  the  party  he  came  with  of  his  intention. 

^Lady  Araminta  and  Amanda  arrived  some  time  before  the 
rest  of  the  party.  Her  ladyship  said,  ‘‘  that  her  leaving  town  was 
to  attend  the  nuptials  of  a particular  friend,”  and  was  express- 
ing her  hopes,  that  on  her  return,  she  should  often  be  favored 
with  the  company  of  Amanda,  when  the  door  suddenly  opened 
and  Lord  Mortimer  entered.  He  looked  pleased  and  surprised, 
and  taking  a seat  on  the  sofa  between  them,  exclaimed,  as  he 
regarded  them  with  unutterable  tenderness,  ‘‘surely  one  moment 
like  this  is  worth  whole  hours  such  as  we  have  lately  spent. 
May  I,”  looking  at  Amanda,  “ say  that  chance  is  now  as  pro- 
pitious to  me  as  it  was  some  time  ago  to  Sir  Charles  Bingley  ? 
Tell  me,”  continued  he,  “ were  you  not  agreeably  surprised 
to-night  ? ” 

“ By  the  Pantheon,  undoubtedly,  my  lord” 

And  by  Sir  Charles  Bingley  ? ” 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


22^ 

No.  He  IS  too  slight  an  acquaintance  either  to  give 
pleasure  by  his  presence  or  pain  by  his  absence.’^ 

This  was  just  what  Lord  Mortimer  wanted  to  hear.  The 
looks  of  Amanda,  and,  above  all,  the  manner  in  which  she  had 
received  the  attentions  of  Sir  Charles,  evinced  her  sincerity.  The 
shadow  of  jealousy  removed,  Lord  Mortimer  recovered  all  his 
animation.  Never  does  the  mind  feel  so  light,  so  truly  happy, 
as  when  a painful  doubt  is  banished  from  it. 

‘‘  Miss  Fitzalan,’’  said  Lady  Araminta,  recurring  to  what 
Amanda  had  just  said,  “ can  see  few  beings,  like  herself,  capa- 
ble of  exciting  immediate  esteem.  For  my  own  part,  I can- 
not persuade  myself  that  she  is  an  acquaintance  of  but  two 
days,  I feel  such  an  interest  in  her  welfare,  such  a sisterly 
regard.^’  She  paused,  and  looked  expressively  on  her  brother 
and  Amanda.  His  fine  eyes  beamed  the  liveliest  pleasure. 

Oh,  my  sister,”  cried  he,  “encourage  that  sisterly  affection. 
Who  so  \yorthy  of  possessing  it  as  Miss  Fitzalan  ? and  who  but 
Amanda,”  continued  he,  passing  his  arm  round  her  waist,  and 
softly  whispering  to  her,  “ shall  have  a right  to  claim  it  ? ” 

The  stopping  of  the  carriages  now  announced  the  return  of 
the  party,  and  terminated  a scene,  which,  if  much  longer  pro- 
tracted, might,  by  increasing  their  agitation,  have  produced  a 
full  discovery  of  their  feelings.  The  ladies  were  attended  by 
Sir  Charles  and  Freelove.  The  marquis  and  Lord  Cherbury 
had  been  out,  but  returned  about  this  time  ; and  soon  after 
supper  the  company  departed — Lady  Araminta  tenderly  bid' 
ding  Amanda  farewell. 

The  cares  which  had  so  long  pressed  upon  the  heart  ot 
Amanda,  and  disturbed  its  peace,  were  now  vanished.  The 
whisper  of  Lord  Mortimer  had  assured  her  that  she  was  not 
only  the  object  of  his  tenderest  affection,  but  most  serious  at- 
<-ention.  The  regard  of  Lady  Araminta  flattered  her  pride,  as 
it  implied  a tacit  approbation  of  her  brother’s  choice. 

The  next  morning,  immediately  after  breakfast.  Lady  Grey- 
stock  went  out  to  her  lawyer,  and  Amanda  was  sitting  at  work 
in  tiie  dressing-room,  when  Sir  Charles  Bingley  was  announced. 
He  now  expressed,  if  possible:  more  pleasure  at  seeing  her  than 
he  had  done  the  preceding  night ; congratulated  himself  at  find- 
ing her  alone,  and  repeatedly  declared,  from  their  first  interview, 
her  image  had  never  been  absent  from  his  mind.  The  par- 
ticularity and  ardor  of  his  expressions  Amanda  wished,  and 
endeavored,  to  repress  Sue  nadnot  the  ridiculous  and  unfeel- 
ing vanity  to  be  delighted  with  an  attachment  she  could  not 
leturn ; besides,  his  attentions  were  unpleasing,  as  she  believe. 


^24 


THE  CHILD REH  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


they  gave  uneasiness  to  Lord  Mortimer.  She  therefore  answered 
him  with  cold  and  studied  caution,  which,  to  his  impetuous 
feelings,  was  insupportable.  Half  resenting,  half  rallying  it,  he 
snatched  her  hand,  in  spite  of  her  efforts  to  prevent  him,  and 
was  declaring  he  could  not  bear  it,  when  the  door  opened  and 
Lord  Mortimer  appeared.  Had  Amanda  been  encouraging  the 
regard  of  Sir  Charles,  she  could  not  have  betrayed  more  con- 
fusion. Lord  Mortimer  retreated  a few  steps,  in  evident  em- 
barrassment ; then  bowing  coolly,  again  advanced  and  took  a 
seat.  Sir  Charles  started  up,  with  a look  which  seemed  to  say 
he  had  been  most  unpleasantly  interrupted,  and  walked  about 
the  room.  Amanda  was  the  first  who  broke  silence.  She 
asked,  in  a hesitating  voice,  ^‘Whether  Lady  Ararninta  was  yet 
gone?’’  ‘‘No,”  his  lordship  gra^/ely  replied;  “but  in  a few 
minutes  she  proposed  setting  out,  and  he  meant  to  accompany 
her  part  of  the  way.”  “ So,  till  her  ladyship  was  read}^”  cried 
Sir  Charles,  with  quickness,  “ that  no  time  might  be  lost,  you 
come  to  Miss  Fitzalan  ? ” 

Lord  Mortimer  made  no  reply.  He  frowned,  and  rising 
directly,  slightly  saluted  Amanda,  and  retired. 

Convinced,  as  she  was,  that  Lord  Mortimer  had  made  the 
visit  for  the  purpose  of  speaking  more  explicitly  than  he  had 
yet  done,  she  could  not  entirely  conceal  her  chagrin,  or  regard 
Sir  Charles  without  some  displeasure.  It  had  not,  however, 
the  effect  of  making  him  shorten  1 us  \’isi  t.  He  continued  with 
her  till  Lady  Grey  stock’s  return,  to  whom  he  proposed  a party 
that  evening  for  the  opera,  and  obtained  permission  to  v/ait 
upon  her  ladyship  at  tea,  with  tickets,  notwillistanding  Amanda 
declared  her  disinclination  to  going.  She  wislmd  to  avoid  the 
public,  as  well  as  private,  attentions  of  Sir  Cl-arles  ; but  both 
she  found  impossible  to  do.  The  impression  winch  the  charms 
of  her  mind  and  form  had  made  on  him  was  of  too  a'rdent,  too 
permanent  a nature,  to  be  erased  by  her  coldness.  Generous 
and  exalted  in  his  notions,  affluent  and  independent  in  his  for- 
tune, he  neither  required  any  addition  of  wealth,  nor  was  under 
any  control  which  could  prevent  his  following  his  inclinations. 
His  heart  was  bent  on  a union  with  Amanda.  Though  hurt  by 
her  indifference,  he  would  not  allow  himself  to  be  discouraged 
by  it.  Time  and  perseverance,  he  trusted  and  believed,  would 
conquer  it.  Unaccustomed  to  disappointment,  he  could  not,  in 
an  affair  which  so  materially  concerned  his  happiness,  bear  the 
idea  of  proving  unsuccessful.  Had  Amanda’s  heart  been  dis- 
engaged,  he  would  probably  have  succeeded  as  he  wished ; for 
he  was  calculated  to  please,  to  inspire  admiration  and  esteem  ; 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE 


22^ 

and  Amanda  felt  a real  friendship  for  him,  and  sincerely  grieved 
that  his  ardent  regard  could  not  be  reduced  to  as  temperate  a 
medium  as  hers. 

Lady  Grey  stock  had  a numerous  and  brilliant  acquaintance 
in  London,  amongst  whom  she  was  continually  engaged.  Sir 
Charles  was  well  known  to  them,  and  therefore  almost  con- 
stantly attended  Amanda  wherever  she  went.  His  unremitted 
and  particular  attention  excited  universal  observation  ; and  he 
was  publicly  declared  the  professed  admirer  of  Lady  Greystock’s 
beautiful  companion.  The  appellation  was  generally  bestowed 
on  her  by  the  gentlemen ; as  many  of  Lady  Greystock’s  female 
intimates  declared,  from  the  appearance  of  the  girl,  as  well  as 
her  distressed  situation,  they  wondered  Sir  Charles  Bingley 
could  ever  think  about  her,  for  her  ladyship  had  represented 
her  as  a person  in  the  most  indigent  circumstances,  on  which 
account  she  had  taken  her  under  her  protection.  All  that  envy, 
hatred,  and  malice  could  suggest  against  her.  Miss  Malcolm  said. 
The  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia,  judging  of  her  by  them- 
selves, supposed  that  as  she  was  not  sure  of  Lord  Mortimer  she 
would  accept  of  Sir  Charles  ; and  though  this  measure  would  re- 
move all  apprehensions  relative  to  Lord  Mortimer,  yet  the  idea  of 
the  wealth  and  consequence  she  would  derive  from  it,  almost  dis- 
tracted them.  Thus  does  envy  sting  the  bosoms  which  harbor  it. 

Lord  Mortimer  again  resumed  his  reserve.  He  was  fre- 
quently in  company  with  Amanda,  but  never  even  attempted  to 
pay  her  any  attention  ; yet  his  eyes,  which  she  often  caught 
riveted  on  her,  though  the  moment  she  perceived  them  they 
were  withdrawn,  seemed  to  say  that  the  alteration  in  his  manner 
was  not  produced  by  any  diminution  of  tenderness.  He  was, 
indeed,  determined  to  regulate  his  conduct  by  hers  to  Sir 
Charles.  Though  pained  and  irritated  by  his  assiduities,  he  had 
too  much  pride  to  declare  a prior  claim  to  her  regard — a woman 
who  could  waver  between  two  objects,  he  deemed  unworthy  of 
either.  He  therefore  resolved  to  leave  Amanda  free  to  act,  and 
put  her  constancy  to  a kind  of  test.  Yet,  notwithstanding  all 
his  pride,  we  believe,  if  not  pretty  well  convinced  that  this  test 
would  have  proved  a source  of  triumph  to  himself,  he  never 
would  have  submitted  to  it.  The  period  for  Lady  Araminta’s 
return  was  now  arrived,  and  Amanda  was  anxiously  expecting 
her,  when  she  heard  from  Lady  Euphrasia  that  her  ladyship  had 
been  ill  in  the  country,  and  would  not  therefore  leave  it  for 
some  time.  This  was  a severe  disappointment’ to  Amanda,  who 
had  hoped,  by  her  ladyship’s  means,  to  have  seen  less  of 
Charles  and  more  of  Lord  ^qrtimer. 


THE  CniLDREH  OF  THE  ABBEY.. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

“And  way  should  such,  v/ithin  herself,  she  cried, 

Lock  the  lost  wealth,  a thousand  want  beside.” — Parnell. 

Amanda  was  sitting  alone  in  the  drawing-room  one  mom 
ing,  when  a gentleman  was  shown  into  it,  to  wait  for  Lady 
Gre3'stock.  The  stranger  was  about  the  middle  period  of  life  ; 
his  dress  announced  him  a military  man,  and  his  threadbare 
coat  seemed  to  declare  that  whatever  laurels  he  had  gathered, 
they  were  barren  ones.  His  form  and  face  were  interesting  ; 
infirmity  appeared  to  press  upon  one,  and  sorrow  had  deeply 
marked  the  other,  yet  without  despoiling  it  of  a certain  expres- 
sion which  indicated  the  hilarity  nature  had  once  stamped  upon 
it.  His  temples  were  sunk,  and  his  cheek  faded  to  a sickly 
hue.  Amanda  felt  immediate  respect  and  sensibility  for  the 
interesting  figure  before  her.  The  feelings  of  her  soul,  the 
early  lessons  of  her  youth,  had  taught  her  to  reverence  distress  j 
and  never,  perhaps,  did  she  think  it  so  peculiarly  affecting,  as 
when  in  a military  garb. 

The  day  was  uncommonly  severe,  and  the  stranger  shivered 
with  the  cold. 

“ I declare,  young  lady,’’  cried  he,  as  he  took  the  chair  which 
Amanda  had  placed  for  him  by  the  fire,  “ I think  I should  not 
tremble  more  before  an  enemy,  than  I do  before  this  day.  I 
don’t  know  but  what  it  is  as  essential  for  a subaltern  officer  to 
stand  cold  as  well  as  fire.” 

Amanda  smiled,  and  resumed  her  work.  She  was  busily 
employed  making  a trimming  of  artificial  flowers  for  Lady 
Greystock,  to  present  to  a young  lady,  from  wJiose  family  she 
had  received  some  obligations.  This  was  a cheap  mode  of 
returning  them,  as  Amanda’s  materials  were  used. 

Your  employment  is  an  entertaining  one,”  said  the  stranger, 
‘‘  and  your  roses  literally  without  thorns  ; such,  no  doubt,  as 
you  expect  to  gather  in  your  path  through  life.” 

No,”  replied  Amanda,  “ I have  no  such  expectation.” 

‘‘And  yet,”  said  he,  “how  few  at  your  time  of  life,  particu- 
larly if  possessed  of  your  advantages,  could  make  such  a 
declaration.” 

“Whoever  had  reflection  undoubtedly  would,”  replied 
Amanda. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY,  227 

‘‘That  I allow/’  cried  he  ; “ but  how  few  do  we  find  with 
reflection  ? — from  the  young  it  is  banished,  as  the  rigid  tyrant 
that  would  forbid  the  enjoyment  of  the  pleasures  they  pant 
after ; — and  from  the  old  it  is  too  often  expelled,  as  an  enemy 
to  that  forgetfulness  which  can  alone  insure  their  tranquillity.” 

“ But  in  both,  I trust,”  said  Amanda,  ‘‘you  will  allow  there 
are  exceptions.” 

“ Perhaps  there  are  ; yet  often,  when  conscience  has  no 
reason  to  dread,  sensibility  has  cause  to  fear  reflection,  which 
not  only  revives  the  recollection  of  happy  hours,  but  inspires 
such  a regret  for  their  loss,  as  almost  unfits  the  soul  for  any 
exertions  ; ’tis  indeed  beautifully  described  in  these  lines — 

“ Still  importunate  and  vain, 

To  former  joys  recurring  ever 
And  turning  all  the  past  to  pain.’' 

Amanda  attentively  watched  him,  and  thought  what  he 
said  appeared  particularly  applicable  to  himself,  as  his  coun- 
tenance assumed  a more  dejected  expression.  He  revived, 
however,  in  a few  moments. 

“ I have,  my  dear  young  lady,”  continued  he,  smiling,  “be- 
guiled you  most  soberly,  as  Lady  Grace  says,  into  conversa- 
tion. I have,  however,  given  you  an  opportunity  of  amusing 
your  fancy  by  drawing  a comparison  between  an  old  veteran 
and  a young  soldier ; but  though  you  may  allow  him  more 
animation,  I trust  you  will  not  do  me  so  much  injustice  as  to 
allow  him  more  taste : while  he  merely  extolled  the  lustre  of 
your  eyes,  I should  admire  the  mildness  which  tempered  that 
lustre  ; while  he  praised  the  glow  of  your  cheek,  I should 
adore  that  sensibility  which  had  power,  in  a moment,  to  aug- 
ment or  diminish  it.” 

At  this  instant  Lady  Greystock  entered  the  room — she 
entered  it  with  the  swell  of  importance,  and  a haughty  ex- 
pression of  contempt  in  her  features. 

The  stranger  rose  from  his  chair,  and  his  paleness  in- 
creased. 

“ So,  Mr.  Rushbrook,”  at  last  drawled  out  her  ladyship.  “ So, 
sir : but  pray  be  seated,”  waving  her  hand  at  the  same  time. 

Amanda  now  retired : she  had  lingered  a few  moments  in 
the  room,  under  the  pretence  of  putting  her  work  out  of  her 
ladyship’s  way,  to  discover  who  the  stranger  was. 

Rushbrook  had  been  represented  to  her  as  artful,  treacher- 
ous, and  contemptible.  His  appearance  was  almost  a sufficient 
refutation  of  those  charges,  and  she  began  to  think  they  never 


228 


THE  CHILDREN  OE  THE  ABBEY. 


Would  have  been  laid  against  him  by  any  other  being  than 
Lady  Greystock,  from  a desire  of  depreciating  her  adversary. 
In  her  ladyship  she  had  seen  much  to  dislike  since  she  resided 
with  her ; she  saw  that  the  temper,  like  the  person,  is  often 
allowed  to  be  in  dishabille  at  home. 

She  felt  even  warmly  interested  about  Rushbrook ; she 
had  heard  of  his  large  family  ; and,  from  his  appearance,  she 
cotijectured  they  must  be  in  distress.  There  was  a kind 
of  humorous  sadness  in  his  manner  which  affected  her  even 
more  than  a settled  melancholy  perhaps  would  have  done,  as 
it  implied  the  efforts  of  a noble  heart  to  repel  sorrow ; and  hr 
there  cannot  be  a more  noble,  neither,  surely,  can  there  be  a 
more  affecting  sight,  than  that  of  a good  and  brave  man  strug- 
gling  with  adversity. 

As  she  leaned  pensively  against  the  window,  reflecting  on 
the  various  inequalities  of  fortune,  yet  still  believing  they  were 
designed  by  a wise  Providence,  like  hill  and  valley,  mutually 
to  benefit  each  other,  she  saw  Rushbrook  cross  the  street ; his 
walk  was  the  slow  and  lingering  walk  of  dejection  and  dis- 
appointment. He  raised  his  hand  to  his  eyes,  Amanda  sup- 
posed to  wipe  away  his  tears,  and  her  own  fell  at  the  supposi- 
tion. The  severity  of  the  day  had  increased ; a heavy  shower 
of  snow  was  falling,  against  which  poor  Rushbrook  had  no 
shelter  but  his  threadbare  coat.  Amanda  was  unutterably 
affected  ; and  when  he  disappeared  from  her  sight,  she  fell 
into  a sentimental  soliloquy,  something  in  the  style  of  Yorick. 

“ Was  I mistress,^’  exclaimed  she,  as  she  beheld  the  splendid 
carriages  passing  and  repassing, — “ was  I mistress  of  one  of 
those  carriages,  an  old  soldier  like  Rushbrook  should  not  be 
exposed  to  the  inclemency  of  a wintry  sky  ; neither  should 
his  coat  be  threadbare,  or  his  heart  oppressed  with  anguish  ! 
If  I sav/  a tear  upon  his  cheek  I would  say  it  had  no  business 
there,  for  comfort  was  about  revisiting  him.’’  As  she  spoke, 
the  idea  of  Lord  Mortimer  occurred.  Her  tears  were  sus- 
pended, and  her  cheek  began  to  glow. 

‘‘Yes,  poor  Rushbrook!”  she  exclaimed,  “perhaps  the 
period  is  not  far  distant  when  a bounteous  Providence,  through 
the  hands  of  Amanda,  may  relieve  thy  wants  ; when  Mortimer 
himself  may  be  her  assistant  in  the  office  of  benevolence  1 ” 

Lady  Greystock’s  woman  now  appeared,  to  desire  she  would 
come  down  to  her  lady.  She  immediately  obeyed  the  sum- 
mons, with  a secret  hope  of  hearing  something  of  the  confer- 
ence. Pier  ladyship  received. her  with  an  exulting  laugh, 

“ I have  good  news  to  tell  you,  my  dear,”  exclaimed  she^ 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY,  229 

that  poor  wretch,  Rushbrook,  has  lost  the  friend  who  was 
to  have  supported  him  in  the  lawsuit ; and  the  lawyers,  finding 
the  sheet-anchor  gone,  have  steered  off,  and  left  him  to  shilv 
for  himself.  The  miserable  creature  and  his  family  must  cer 
tainly  starve.  Only  think  of  his  assurance.  He  came  to  say^ 
indeed,  he  would  now  be  satisfied  with  a compromise. “ Well, 
madam  ? ” said  Amanda. 

“ Well,  madam,  repeated  her  ladyship,  mimicking  her  man- 
ner ; “I  told  him  I must  be  a fool  indeed,  if  ever  I consented 
to  such  a thing,  after  his  effrontery  in  attempting  to  litigate 
the  will  of  his  much-abused  uncle,  my  dear,  good  Sir  Geoffry. 
No,  no ; I bid  him  proceed  in  the  suit,  as  all  my  lawyers  were 
prepared ; and,  after  so  much  trouble  on  both  sides,  it  would 
be  a pity  the  thing  came  to  nothing.’^  “ As  your  ladyship, 
however,  knows  his  extreme  distress,  no  doubt  you  will  relieve 
it.”  Why,  pray,”  said  her  ladyship,  smartly,  do  you  think 
he  has  any  claim  upon  me  .^  ” ‘‘ Yes,”  replied  Amanda,  ‘Gf 

not  upon  your  justice,  at  least  upon  your  humanity.”  So 
you  would  advise  me  to  fling  away  my  money  upon  him  ? ” 
‘‘Yes,”  replied  Amanda,  smiling,  “I  would.  And,  as  your 
ladyship  likes  the  expression,  have  you  fling  it  away  profusely.” 
“Well,  well,”  answered  she,  “when  you  arrive  at  my  age,  you 
will  know  the  real  value  of  wealth.”  “ I trust  madam,”  said 
Amanda,  with  spirit,  “ I know  its  real  value  already.  We  only 
estimate  it  differently.” 

“ And  pray,”  asked  her  ladyship,  with  ar  sneer,  “ how  may 
you  estimate  it  1 ” 

“ As  the  means,  madam,  of  dispensing  happiness  around 
us.  Of  giving  shelter  to  the  houseless  child  of  want,  and  joy 
to  the  afflicted  heart ; as  a sacred  deposit  intrusted  to  us  by 
an  Almighty  Power  for  those  purposes,  which,  if  so  applied, 
will  nourish  placid  and  delightful  reflections,  that,  like  soothing 
friends,  will  crowd  around  us  in  the  bed  of  sickness  or  death, 
alleviating  the  pains  of  one,  and  the  terrors  of  the  other.” 

“Upon  my  word,”  exdaimed  Lady  Greystock,  “a  fine 
flowery  speech,  and  well  calculated  for  a sentimental  novel  or 
a moral  treatise  for  the  improvement  of  youth.  But  I advise 
foil,  my  dear,  in  future,  to  keep  your  queer  and  romantic 
notions  to  yourself,  or  else  it  will  be  suspected  you  have  made 
romances  your  study ; for  you  have  just  spoken  as  one  of  their 
heroines  would  have  done.” 

Amanda  made  no  reply ; yet  as  she  beheld  her  ladyshi/l 
seated  in  an  easy-chair,  by  a blazing  fire,  with  a large  bowl  01 
nch  soup  before  her,  which  she  took  every  morning,  she  could 


230 


TftE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

not  forbear  secretly  exclaiming : Hard-hearted  woman  I em 
grossed  by  your  own  gratifications,  no  ray  of  compassion  cai% 
soften  your  nature  for  the  misfortunes  of  others.  Sheltered 
yourself  from  the  tempests,  you  see  it  falling,  without  pity,  on 
the  head  of  wretchedness ; and  while  you  feast  on  luxuries, 
think  without  emotion  of  those  who  want  even  common  neces- 
saries.’’ 

In  the  evening  they  went  to  a large  party  at  the  mar- 
chioness’s, but  though  the  scene  was  gay  and  brilliant,  it  could 
not  remove  the  pensiveness  of  Amanda’s  spirits.  The  emaci- 
ated form  of  Rushbrook,  returning  to  his  desolate  family, 
dwelt  upon  her  mind.  A little,  she  thought,  as  she  surveyed 
the  magnificence  of  the  apartments,  and  the  splendor  of  the 
company  which  crowded  them,  a little  from  this  parade  of 
vanity  and  wealth,  would  give  relief  to  many  a child  of  indi- 
gence. Never  had  the  truth  of  the  following  lines  so  forcibly 
struck  her  imagination  : — 

Ah,  little  think  the  gay,  licentious  crowd 
Whom  pleasure,  pawer,  and  affluence  surround  ; 

They  who  their  thoughtless  hours  in  giddy  mirth 
And  wanton,  often  cruel,  riot  waste  ; 

Ah,  little  think  they,  while  they  dance  along, 

How  many  feel,  this  very  moment,  death, 

And  all  the  sad  variety  of  pain. 

How  many  drink  the  cup 
Of  baleful  grief,  or  eat  the  bitter  bread 
Of  misery,,  sore  pierced  by  wintry  winds  ? 

How  many  shrink  into  the  sordid  hut 
Of  cheerless  poverty  ? ” 

From  such  reflections  as  these  she  was  disturbed  by  the  en- 
trance of  Sir  Charles  Bingley.  As  usual,  he  took  his  station 
by  her,  and  in  a few  minutes  after  him  Lord  Mortimer  appeared. 
A party  for  vingt-un  was  formed,  in  which  Amanda  joined,  from 
a wish  of  avoiding  the  assiduities  of  Sir  Charles  ; but  he  took 
care  to  secure  a seat  next  hers,  and  Lord  Mortimer  sat  oppo- 
site to  them, 

Bingley,”  said  a gentleman,  after  they  had  been  some 
time  at  the  table,  you  are  certainly  the  most  changeable  fellow 
in  the  world.  About  three  weeks  ago  you  were  hurrying  every- 
thing for  a journey  to  Ireland,  as  if  life  and  death  depended  on 
your  expedition,  and  here  I still  find  you  loitering  about  the 
town.” 

I deny  the  imputation  of  changeableness,”  replied  the 
baronet  ; “ ail  my  actions  are  regulated,”  and  he  glanced  at 

Amanda,  by  one  source,  one  object.” 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBE  if- 


23^ 


Amanda  blushed,  and  caught,  at  that  moment,  a penetrating 
look  from  Lord  Mortimer.  Her  situation  was  extremely  dis 
agreeable.  She  dreaded  his  attentions  would  be  imputed  to 
encouragement  from  her  ; she  had  often  tried  to  suppress  them, 
and  she  resolved  her  next  efforts  should  be  more  resolute. 

Sir  Charles  reached  Pall  Mall  the  next  morning  just  as 
Lady  Greystock  was  stepping  into  her  chariot,  to  acquaint  her 
lawyer  of  Rushbrook’s  visit.  She  informed  him  that  Miss  Fitz- 
alan  was  in  the  drawing-room,  and  he  flew  up  to  her. 

‘^You  find,’^  said  he,  ‘‘by  what  you  heard  last  night,  that 
my  conduct  has  excited  some  surprise.  I assure  you  my  friends 
think  I must  absolutely  be  deranged,  to  relinquish  so  suddenly 
a journey  I appeared  so  anxious  to  take.  Suffer  me,”  continued 
he,  taking  her  hand,  “ to  assign  the  true  reason  for  this  apparent 
change.”  “ Sir  Charles,”  replied  Amanda,  “ ’tis  time  to  termr 
nate  this  trifling.” 

“ Oh,  let  it  then  be  terminated,”  said  he,  with  eagerness^ 
“ by  your  consenting  to  my  happiness,  by  your  accepting  a hand, 
tendered  to  you  with  tire  most  ardent  affections  of  my  heart.” 

With  equal  delicacy  and  tenderness,  he  then  urged  her  ac- 
ceptance of  proposals  which  were  as  disinterested  as  the  most 
romantic  generosity  could  desire  them  to  be. 

Amanda  felt  really  concerned  that  he  had  made  them  ; the 
grateful  sensibility  of  her  nature  was  hurt  at  the  idea  of  giving 
him  pain.  “ Believe  me,  Sir  Charles,”  said  she,  “ I am  truh* 
sensible  of  the  honor  of  your  addresses ; but  I should  deem 
my  seif  unworthy  of  the  favorable  opinion  which  excited  them, 
if  I delayed  a moment  assuring  you  that  friendship  was  the  only 
return  in  my  power  to  make  for  them.” 

The  impetuous  passions  of  Sir  Charles  were  now  all  ir 
commotion.  He  started  from  his  chair  and  traversed  the  apart- 
ment in  breathless  agitation.  “ I will  not.  Miss  Fitzalan,”  saic 
he,  resuming  his  seat  again,  believe  you  inflexible,  I will  na> 
believe  that  you  can  think  I shall  so  easily  resign  an  idea  which 
I have  so  long  cherished  with  rapture.” 

“Surely,  Sir  Charles,”  somewhat  alarmed,  “3^ou  cannot 
accuse  me  of  having  encouraged  that  idea  ? ” 

“ Oh,  no,”  sighed  he  passionately,  “ to  me  you  were  always 
uniformly  cold.”  “ And  from  whence  then  proceeded  such  an 
idea } ’ 

“ From  the  natural  propensity  we  all  have  to  deceive  our- 
selves, and  to  believe  that  whatever  we  wish  will  be  accom- 
plished. Ah ! Miss  Fitzalan,  deprive  me  not  of  so  sweet  a be 
lief.  I will  not  at  present  urge  you  to  any  material  step  to 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


232 

which  you  are  averse  ; I will  only  entreat  for  permission  to  hope 
that  time,  perseverance,  unremitted  attention,  may  make  some 
impression  on  you,  and  at  last  produce  a change  in  my  favor/* 
Never,  Sir  Charles,  will  I give  rise  to  a hope  which  I think 
cannot  be  realized.  A little  reflection  will  convince  you  you 
should  not  be  displeased  at  my  being  so  explicit.  We  are,  at 
this  moment,  both  perhaps,  too  much  discomposed  to  render  a 
longer  conference  desirable.  Pardon  me,  therefore,  if  I no\^ 
terminate  it,  and,  be  assured,  I shall  never  lose  a grateful  re- 
membrance of  the  honor  you  intended  me,  or  forget  the  friend- 
ship I professed  for  Sir  Charles  Bingley.” 

She  then  withdrew,  without  any  obstruction  from  him.  Re- 
gret  and  disappointment  seemed  to  have  suspended  his  facuh 
des  ; but.  it  was  a momentary  suspension,  and  on  recovering 
them  he  quitted  the  house. 

His  pride,  at  first,  urged  him  to  give  up  Amanda  forever  j 
but  his  tenderness  soon  opposed  this  resolution.  He  had,  as 
he  himself  acknowledged,  a propensity  to  believe,  that  what- 
ever he  wished  was  easy  to  accomplish  ; this  propensity  pro- 
ceeded from  the  easiness  with  which  his  inclinations  had  hither- 
to been  gratified.  Flattering  himself  that  the  coldness  of 
Amanda  proceeded  more  from  natural  reserve  than  particular 
indifference  to  him,  he  still  hoped  she  might  be  induced  to  favor 
him.  She  was  so  superior,  in  his  opinion,  to  every  woman  he 
had  seen,  so  truly  calculated  to  render  him  happy,  that,  as  the 
violence  of  offended  pride  abated,  he  resolved,  without  another 
effort,  not  to  give  her  up.  Without  knowing  it,  he  had  rambled 
to  St.  James’s  Square,  and  having  heard  of  the  friendship  sub- 
sisting between  Lord  Cherbury  and  Fitzalan,  he  deemed  his  lord- 
ship  a proper  person  to  apply  to  on  the  present  occasion,  thinking, 
that  if  he  interested  himself  in  his  favor,  he  might  yet  be  suc- 
cessful. He  accordingly  repaired  to  his  house,  and  was  shown 
into  an  apartment  where  the  earl  and  Lord  Mortimer  were  sit- 
ting  together.  After  paying  the  usual  compliments,  “ I am 
come,  my  lord,”  said  he,  somewhat  abruptly,  “ to  entreat  your 
interest  in  an  affair  which  materially  concerns  my  happiness, 
and  trust  your  lordship  will  excuse  my  entreaty,  when  I inform 
you  it  relates  to  Miss  Fitzalan.” 

The  earl,  with  much  politeness,  assured  him,  He  should 
feel  happy  in  an  opportunity  of  serving  him,”  and  said,  “ he  did 
him  but  justice  in  supposing  him  particularly  interested  about 
Miss  Fitzalan,  not  only  as  the  daughter  of  his  old  friend,  but 
ir^^m  her  own  great  merit.” 

Sir  Charles  thev.  acquainted  him  with  the  proposals  he  had 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


233 


just  made  her,  and  her  absolute  rejection  of  them  ; and  ex- 
pressed his  hope  that  Lord  Cherbury  would  try  to  influence  her 
in  his  favor. 

‘‘  ’Tis  very  extraordinary,  indeed,’’  cried  his  lordship,  that 
Miss  Fitzalan  should  decline  such  an  honorable,  such  an  advan- 
tageous proposal.  Are  you  sure,  Sir  Charles,  there  is  no  prior 
attachment  in  the  case  1 ” 

never  heard  of  one,  my  lord,  and  I believe  none  exists.” 
Lord  Mortimer’s  countenance  lowered  at  this,  but,  happily,  its 
gloom  was  unperceived. 

I will  write  to-day,”  said  the  earl,  to  Mr.  Fitzalan, 
ind  mention  your  proposal  to  him  in  the  terms  it  deserves. 
Except  authorized  by  him,  you  must.  Sir  Charles,  excuse  my 
personal  interference  in  the  affair.  I have  no  doubt,  indeed, 
but  he  will  approve  of  your  addresses,  and  you  may  then  de- 
pend on  my  seconding  them  with  all  my  interest.” 

This  promise  satisfied  Sir  Charles,  and  he  soon  after  with- 
drew. Lord  Mortimer  was  now  pretty  well  convinced  of  the 
state  of  Amanda’s  heart.  Under  this  conviction,  he  delayed 
not  many  minutes,  after  Sir  Charles’s  departure,  going  to  Pall 
Mall ; and  having  particularly  inquired  whether  Lady  Greystock 
was  out,  and  being  answered  in  the  affirmative,  he  ascended  to 
the  drawing-room,  to  which  Amanda  had  again  returned. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 


Go  bid  the  needle  its  dear  north  forsake, 

To  which  with  trembling  reverence  it  does  bend 
Go  bid  the  stones  a journey  upward  make : 

Go  bid  the  ambitious  flame  no  more  ascend  ; 

And  when  these  false  to  their  old  motions  prove, 

Then  will  I cease  thee,  thee  alone  to  love.” — Cowi  EY. 

In  an  emotion  of  surprise  at  so  unexpected  a visit,  the  book 
she  was  reading  dropped  from  Amanda,  and  she  arose  in  visible 
agitation. 

‘‘I  fear,”  said  his  lordship,  I have  intruded  somewhat 
abruptly  upon  you  ; but  my  apology  for  doing  so  must  be  my 
ardent  wish  of  using  an  opportunity  so  propitious  for  a mutual 
eclaircissement — an  opportunity  I might,  perhaps,  vainly  seek 
again.” 

He  took  her  trembling  hand,  led  her  to  the  sofa,  and  placed 


^34 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


himself  by  her.  As  a means  of  leading  to  the  desiied  eclair- 
cissement,  he  related  the  agonies  he  had  suffered  at  returning 
to  Tudor  Hall,  and  finding  her  gone — ^gone  in  a manner  so  in- 
explicable, that  the  more  he  reflected  on  it  the  more  wretched 
he  grew.  He  described  the  hopes  and  fears  which  alternately 
fluctuated  in  his  mind  during  his  continuance  in  Ireland,  and 
which  often  drove  him  into  a state  nearly  bordering  on  distrac- 
tion. He  mentioned  the  resolution,  though  painful  in  the  ex- 
treme,  which  he  had  adopted  on  the  first  appearance  of  Sir 
Charles  Bingley’s  particularity ; and  finally  concluded  by  as- 
suring her,  notwithstanding  all  his  incertitude  and  anxiety,  his 
tenderness  had  never  known  diminution. 

Encouraged  by  this  assurance,  Amanda,  with  restored  com- 
posure, informed  him  of  the  reason  of  her  precipitate  journey 
from  Wales,  and  the  incidents  which  prevented  her  meeting  him 
in  Ireland,  as  he  had  expected.  Though  delicacy  forbade  her 
dwelling,  like  Lord  Mortimer,  on  the  v/retchedness  occasioned 
by  their  separation,  and  mutual  misapprehensions  of  each  other, 
she  could  not  avoid  touching  upon  it  sufficiently,  indeed,  to  con- 
vince him  she  had  been  a sympathizing  participator  in  all  the 
uneasiness  he  had  suffered. 

Restored  to  the  confidence  of  Mortimer,  Amanda  appeared 
dearer  to  his  soul  than  ever.  Pleasure  beamed  from  his  eyes 
as  he  pressed  her  to  his  bosom,  and  exclaimed,  ‘‘  I may  again 
call  you  my  own  Amanda ; again  sketch  scenes  of  felicity,  and 
call  upon  you  to  realize  them.’’  Yet,  in  the  midst  of  this  trans- 
port, a sudden  gloom  clouded  his  countenance  ; and  after  gaz- 
ing on  her  some  minutes,  with  pensive  tenderness,  he  fervently 
exclaimed,  “ Would  to  Heaven,  in  this  hour  of  perfect  recon- 
ciliation, I could  say  that  all  obstacles  to  our  future  happiness 
were  removed.”  Amanda  involuntarily  shuddered,  and  con- 
tinued silent. 

That  my  father  will  throw  difficulties  in  the  way  of  our 
union,  I cannot  deny  my  apprehension  of,”  said  Lord  Mortimer  j 
‘‘ though  truly  noble  and  generous  in  his  nature,  he  is  some- 
times, like  the  rest  of  mankind,  influenced  by  interested  motives. 
He  has  long,  from  such  motives,  set  his  heart  on  a connection 
with  the  Marquis  of  Roslin’s  family.  Though  fully  determined 
in  my  intentions,  I have  hitherto  forborne  an  explicit  declara- 
tion of  them  to  him,  trusting  that  some  propitious  chance  would 
yet  second  my  wishes,  and  save  me  the  painful  necessity  of  dis- 
turbing the  harmony  which  has  ever  subsisted  between  us.” 

“Oh  ! my  lord  !”  said  Amanda,  turning  pale,  and  shrink- 
ing from  him,  “ let  me  not  be  the  unfortunate  cause  of  disturb- 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


*3S 

ing  that  harmony.  Comply  with  the  wishes  of  Lord  Cheiburyj 
marry  Lady  Euphrasia,  and  let  me  be  forgotten/* 

“ Amanda,’*  cried  his  lordship,  “ accuse  not  yourself  of 
being  the  cause  of  any  disagreement  between  us.  Had  I never 
seen  you,  with  respect  to  Lady  Euphrasia,  I should  have  felt 
the  same  inability  to  comply  with  his  wishes.  To  me  her  per- 
son is  not  more  unpleasing  than  her  mind,  I have  long  been 
convinced  that  w^ealth  alone  wns  insufficient  to  bestow  felicity, 
and  have  ever  considered  the  man  w^ho  could  sacrifice  his  feel- 
ings at  the  shrine  of  interest  or  ambition,  degraded  below  the 
standard  of  humanity  ; that  to  marry,  merely  from  selfish  con- 
siderations, was  one  of  the  most  culpable,  most  contemptible 
actions  which  could  be  committed.  To  enter  into  such  a union, 
I want  the  propensities  wdrich  can  alone  ever  occasion  it,  namely, 
a violent  passion  for  the  enjoyments  only  attainable  through 
the  medium  of  wealth.  Left  at  an  early  age  uncontrolled  mas- 
ter of  my  own  actions,  I drank  freely  of  the  cup  of  pleasure, 
but  found  it  soon  pall  upon  my  taste.  It  was,  indeed,  unmixed 
wdth  any  of  those  refined  ingredients  which  can  only  please  the 
intellectual  appetite,  and  might  properly  be  termed  the  cup  of 
false  instead  of  real  pleasure.  Thinking,  therefore,  as  I do, 
that  a union  without  love  is  abhorrent  to  probity  and  sensibility, 
and  that  the  dissipated  pleasures  of  life  are  not  only  prejudicial 
but  tiresome,  I naturally  wish  to  secure  to  myself  domestic  hap- 
piness ; but  never  could  it  be  experienced  except  united  to  a 
%voman  wdiom  my  reason  thoroughly  approved,  wdio  should  at 
once  possess  my  unbounded  confidence  and  tenderest  affection. 
Who  should  be,  not  only  the  promoter  of  my  joys,  but  the  as- 
suager  of  my  cares.  In  you  I have  found  such  a woman,  such 
a being,  as  I candidly  confess,  some  time  ago,  I thought  it  im- 
possible to  meet  wdth.  To  you  I am  bound  by  a sentiment  even 
stronger  than  love — by  honor — and  wdth  real  gratitude  acknowl- 
edge my  obligations  in  being  permitted  to  atone,  in  some  de- 
gree, for  my  errors  relative  to  you.  But  I will  not  allow  my 
Amanda  to  suppose  these  errors  proceeded  from  any  settled 
depravity  of  soul.  Allowed  to  be,  as  I have  before  said,  my 
own  master  at  an  early  period,  from  the  natural  thoughtlessness 
of  youth,  I was  led  into  scenes  which  the  judgment  of  riper 
years  has  since  severely  condemned.  Here,  too,  often  I met 
with  women  whose  manners,  instead  of  checking,  gave  a lati- 
tude to  freedom ; women,  too.  who,  from  their  siraaiions  in  life, 
had  every  advantage  that  could  be  requisite  for,  improving  and 
refining  their  minds.  From  conversing  with  them  I grad- 
iially  imbibed  a prejudice  against  the  whole  sex  and  under  that 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


236 

prejudice  first  beheld  j.:)u,  and  feared  either  to  doubt  or  to 
believe  the  reality  of  the  innocence  you  appeared  to  possess. 

Convinced  at  length,  most  fully,  most  happily  convinced 
of  its  reality,  my  prejudices  no  longer  remained  ; they  vanished 
like  mists  before  the  sun — or  rather  like  the  illusions  of  false- 
hood before  the  influence  of  truth.  Were  those,  my  dear 
Amanda,  of  your  sex,  who,  like  you,  had  the  resistless  power 
of  pleasing,  to  use  the  faculties  assigned  them  by  a bounteous 
Providence  in  the  cause  of  virtue,  they  would  soon  check  the 
dissipation  of  the  times. 

“ ’Tis  impossible  to  express  the  power  a beautiful  form  has 
over  the  human  mind ; that  power  might  be  exerted  for  nobler 
purposes.  Purity  speaking  from  love-inspiring  lips  would,  like 
the  voice  of  Adam’s  heavenly  guest,  so  sweetly  breathe  upon 
the  ear  as  insensibly  to  influence  the  heart ; the  libertine  it  cor- 
rected would,  if  not  utterly  hardened,  reform  ; no  longer  would 
he  glory  in  his  vices,  but  touched  and  abashed,  instead  of  de- 
stroying, worship  female  virtue. 

‘‘  But  I wander  from  the  purpose  of  my  soul.  Convinced 
as  I am  of  the  dissimilarity  between  my  father’s  inclinations 
and  mine,  I think  it  better  to  give  no  intimation  of  my  present 
intentions,  which,  if  permitted  by  you,  I am  unalterably  deter- 
mined on  fulfilling,  as  I should  consider  it  as  highly  insulting 
to  him  to  incur  his  prohibition,  and  then  act  in  defiance  of  it, 
though  my  heart  would  glory  in  avowing  its  choice.  The  pecu- 
liar circumstances  I have  just  mentioned  will,  I trust,  induce 
my  Amanda  to  excuse  a temporary  concealment  of  it,  till  be- 
yond the  power  of  mortals  to  separate  us — a private  and  imme- 
diate union,  the  exigency  of  situation,  and  the  security  of  felicity 
demands.  I shall  feel  a trembling  apprehension  till  I call  you 
mine  ; life  is  too  short  to  permit  the  waste  of  time  in  idle 
scruples  and  unmeaning  ceremonies.  The  eye  of  suspicion  has 
long  rested  upon  us,  and  would,  I am  convinced,  effect  a prema- 
ture discovery,  if  we  took  not  some  measure  to  prevent  it. 

Deem  me  not  too  precipitate,  my  Amanda,”  passing  his 
arm  gently  round  her  waist,  ‘‘  if  I ask  you  to-morrow  night,  for 
the  last  sweet  proof  of  confidence  you  can  give  me,  by  putting 
yourself  under  my  protection.  A journey  to  Scotland  is  un- 
avoidable— in  the  arrangements  I shall  make  for  it,  all  that  is 
due  to  delicacy  I shall  consider.” 

“ Mention  it  no  more,  my  lord,”  said  Amanda,  in  a faltering 
accent ; ‘‘  no  longer  delude  your  imagination  @r  mine  with  the 
hopes  of  being  united.” 

Hitherto  she  had  believed  the  approbation  of  Lord  Cher- 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


2X’7 


bury  to  the  wishes  of  his  son  would  be  obtained,  the  moment 
he  was  convinced  how  essential  their  gratification  was  to  his 
felicity.  She  judged  of  him  by  her  father^  who,  she  was  con- 
vinced, if  situations  were  reversed,  would  bestow  her  on  Morti- 
mer without  hesitation.  These  ideas  so  nourished  her  attach- 
ment, that,  like  the  vital  parts  of  existence,  it  at  length  became 
painfully,  almost  fatally,  susceptible  of  every  shock.  Her  dream 
of  happiness  was  over  the  moment  she  heard  Lord  Cherbury’s 
consent  was  not  to  be  asked,  from  a fear  of  its  being  refused. 
Hwas  misery  to  be  separated  from  Lord  Mortimer,  but  it  was 
guilt  and  misery  to  marry  him  clandestinely,  after  the  solemn 
injunction  her  father  had  given  her  against  such  a step.  The 
shock  of  disappointment  could  not  be  borne  with  composure ; 
it  pressed  like  a cold  dead  weight  upon  her  heart.  She  trembled, 
and,  unable  to  support  herself,  sunk  against  the  shoulder  of 
Lord  Mortimer,  while  a shower  of  tears  proclaimed  her  agony. 
Alarmed  by  her  emotion.  Lord  Mortimer  hastily  demanded  its 
source,  and  the  reason  of  the  words  which  had  just  escaped  her. 

“ Because,  my  lord,”  replied  she,  I cannot  consent  to  a 
clandestine  measure,  nor  bear  you  should  incur  the  displeasure 
of  Lord  Cherbury  on  my  account.  Though  Lady  Euphrasia 
Sutherland  is  not  agreeable,  there  are  many  women  who,  with 
equal  rank  and  fortune,  possess  the  perfections  suited  to  your 
taste.  Seek  for  one  of  these — choose  from  among  them  a 
happy  daughter  of  prosperity,  and  let  Amanda,  untitled,  unpor- 
tioned, and  unpleasing  to  your  father,  return  to  an  olDSCurity 
which  owes  its  comfort  to  his  fostering  bounty.”  “ Does  this 
advice,”  asked  Lord  Mortimer,  ‘‘proceed  from  Amanda’s 
heart  'i  ” “ No,”  replied  she,  hesitatingly,  and  smiling  through 

her  tears,  “not  from  her  heart,  but  from  a better  counsellor, 
her  reason.” 

“ And  shall  I not  obey  the  dictates  of  reason,”  replied  he, 
“ in  uniting  my  destiny  to  yours  ? Reason  directs  us  to  seek 
happiness  through  virtuous  means  ; and  what  means  are  so 
adapted  for  that  purpose,  as  a union  with  a beloved  and 
amiable  woman  ? No,  Amanda ; no  titled  daughter  of  pros- 
perity, to  use  your  own  words,  shall  ever  attract  my  aifections 
from  you.  ‘ Imagination  cannot  form  a shape,  besides  your 
own,  to  like  of ; ’ a shape  which  even  if  despoiled  of  its  graces, 
would  enshrine  a mind  so  transcendently  lovely,  as  to  secure 
my  admiration.  In  choosing  you  as  the  partner  of  my  future 
days,  I do  not  infringe  the  moral  obligation  which  exists  be- 
tween father  and  son  ; for  as,  on  one  hand,  it  does  not  require 
weak  indulgence ; so,  on  the  other^  it  does  not  demand  implicit 


THE  CHILDREH  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


23? 

obedience,  if  reason  and  happiness  must  be  sacrificed  by  it. 
Nothing  would  have  tempted  me  to  propose  a private  union  but 
the  hope  of  escaping  many  disagreeable  circumstances  by  it 
If  you  persist,  however,  in  rejecting  it,  I shall  openly  avow  my 
ini  V L tions,  for  a long  continuance  of  anxiety  and  suspense  I 
cannot  support.*' 

“ Do  you  think,  then,"  said  Amanda,  “ I would  enter  your 
family  amidst  confusion  and  altercation  ? No,  my  lord,  rashly 
or  clandestinely  I never  will  consent  to  enter  it." 

‘‘  Is  this  the  happiness  I promised  myself  would  crown  our 
reconciliation  ? " exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer,  rising  hastily  and 
traversing  the  apartment.  “ Is  an  obstinate  adherence  to  rigid 
punctilio  the  only  proof  of  regard  I shall  receive  from  Aman- 
da ? Will  she  make  no  trifling  sacrifice  to  the  man  who  adores 
her,  and  whom  she  professes  to  esteem  ? " 

“ Any  sacrifice,  my  lord,  compatible  with  virtue  and  filial 
duty,  most  willingly  would  I make ; but  beyond  these  limits  I 
must  not,  cannot,  will  not  step.  Cold,  joyless,  and  unwor^t^'^ 
your  acceptance  would  be  the  hand  you  would  receive  it  giver 
against  my  conviction  of  what  was  right.  Oh,  never  may  the 
hour  arrive  in  which  I should  blush  to  see  my  father ; in  which 
I should  be  accused  of  injuring  the  honor  intrusted  to  my  charge, 
and  feel  oppressed  with  the  consciousness  of  having  planted 
thorns  in  the  breast  that  depended  on  me  for  happin-^ss." 

‘‘Do  not  be  too  inflexible,  my  Amanda,"  cried  Lcrd  Morti- 
mer, resuming  his  seat,  “ nor  suffer  too  great  a degree  of  refine- 
ment to  involve  you  in  wretchedness  ; felicity  is  seldom  attained 
without  some  pain ; a little  resolution  on  your  side  would  over- 
come any  difficulties  that  lay  between  us  and  it ; when  the  act 
was  past,  my  father  would  naturally  lose  his  resentment,  from 
perceiving  its  inefficacy,  and  family  concord  would  speedily  be 
restored.  Araminta  adores  you ; with  rapture  would  she  re- 
ceive her  dear  and  lovely  sister  to  her  bosom ; your  father, 
happy  in  your  happiness,  would  be  convinced  his  notions  here- 
tofore were  too  scrupulous,  and  that  in  complying  with  my  wishes 
you  had  neither  violated  your  own  delicacy  nor  tarnished  his 
honor." 

“ Ah,  my  lord,  your  arguments  have  not  the  effect  you  de- 
sire. I cannot  be  deluded  by  them,  to  view  things  in  the  light 
you  wish.  To  unite  myself  clandestinely  to  you  would  be  to 
fly  in  the  face  of  parental  authority  ; to  be  proposed  to  Lord 
Cherbury,  when  almost  certain  of  a refusal,  would  not  only 
subject  me  to  insult,  but  dissolve  the  friendship  which  has 
hitherto  subsisted  between  his  lordship  and  my  father.  Situ- 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


239 


ated  as  we  are,  our  only  expedient  is  to  separate  ; ’tin  absurd 
to  think  longer  of  a connection  against  which  there  are  such 
obstacles  ; the  task  of  trying  to  forget  will  be  easier  to  you,  my 
lord,  than  you  now  perhaps  imagine  ; the  scenes  you  must  be 
engaged  in  are  well  calculated  to  expunge  painful  remembrances ; 
in  the  retirement  my  destiny  has  doomed  me  to  my  efforts  will 
not  be  wanting  to  render  me  equally  successful.” 

The  tears  trickled  down  Amanda’s  pale  cheeks  as  she  spoke  ) 
she  believed  that  they  must  part,  and  the  belief  was  attended 
with  a pang  of  unutterable  anguish  : pleased  and  pained  by  he-’* 
sensibility,  Lord  Mortimer  bent  forward  and  looked  into  her  face 

“ Are  these  tears,”  said  he,  to  enforce  me  to  the  only  ex- 
pedient you  say  remains  ? Ah,  my  Amanda,”  clasping  her  to 
his  breast,  the  task  of  forgetting  you  could  never  be  accom- 
plished— could  never  be  attempted;  life  would  be  tasteless  if 
not  spent  with  you  ; never  will  I relinquish  the  delightful  hope 
of  a union  yet  taking  place.  A sudden  thought,”  resumed  he, 
after  pausing  a few  minutes,  ‘‘  has  just  occurred.  I have  an 
aunt,  the  only  remaining  sister  of  Lord  Cherbury,  a generous 
tender,  exalted  woman  ; I have  ever  been  her  particular  favor 
ite ; my  Amanda,  I know,  is  the  very  kind  of  being  she  would 
select,  if  the  choice  devolved  on  her,  for  my  wife  : she  is  now  in 
the  country ; I will  write  immediately,  inform  her  of  our  situation, 
and  entreat  her  to  come  up  to  town  to  use  her  influence  witb 
my  father  in  our  favor.  Her  fortune  is  large,  from  the  bequest 
of  a rich  relation ; and  from  the  generosity  of  her  dispositioT 
I have  no  doubt  she  would  render  the  loss  of  Lady  Euphrasia  s 
fortune  very  immaterial  to  her  brother.  This  is  the  only 
scheme  I can  possibly  devise  for  the  completion  of  our  happi- 
ness, according  to  your  notions,  and  I hope  it  meets  your  appro- 
bation.” 

It  appeared  indeed,  a feasible  one  to  Amanda ; and  as  it 
could  not  possibly  excite  any  ideas  unfavorable  to  her  father’s 
integrity,  she  gave  her  consent  to  its  being  tried. 

Her  heart  felt  relieved  of  an  oppressive  load,  as  the  hope 
revived  that  it  might  be  accomplished.  Lord  Mortimer  wiped 
away  her  tears  ; and  the  cloud  which  hung  over  them  both  be- 
ing dispersed,  they  talked  with  pleasure  of  future  days.  Lord 
Mortimer  described  the  various  schemes  he  had  planned  for 
their  mode  of  life.  Amanda  smiled  at  'the  easiness  with  which 
he  contrived  them,  and  secretly  wished  he  might  find  it  as  easy 
TO  realize  as  to  project. 

“Though  the  retired  path  of  life,”  said  he,  “ might  be  more 
agreeable  to  us  than  the  frequented  and  public  OMe,  we  must 


240 


TlfE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


make  some  little  sacrifice  of  inclination  to  the  community  to 
.vhich  we  belong.  On  an  elevated  station  and  affluent  fortune 
there  are  claims  from  subordinate  ranks  which  cannot  be  avoid’ 
ed  without  injuring  them.  Neither  should  I wash  io  aide-  the 
beautiful  gem  1 shall  possess  in  obscurity ; but,  after  a wintei 
of  what  I call  moderate  dissipation,  we  will  hasten  to  the 
sequestered  shades  of  Tudor  Hall.’’  He  dwelt  with  pleasure  on 
the  calm  and  rational  joys  they  should  experience  there  ; nor 
could  forbear  hinting  at  the  period  when  new  tendernesses,  new 
sympathies,  would  be  awakened  in  their  souls  : when  little 
prattling  beings  should  frolic  before  them,  and  literally  strew 
roses  in  their  paths.  He  expressed  his  wish  of  having  Fitzalan 
a constant  resident  with  them  : and  was  proceeding  to  mention 
some  alterations  he  intended  at  Tudor  Hall,  when  the  return 
of  Lady  Greystock’s  carriage  effectually  disturbed  him.  Lord 
Mortimer,  however,  had  time  to  assure  Amanda,  ere  she  entered 
the  room,  that  he  had  no  doubt  but  everything  would  be  soon 
settled  according  to  their  wishes,  and  that  he  would  take  every 
opportunity  her  ladyship’s  absence  gave  him  of  visiting  her 

“ So,  so,”  said  Lady  Greystock,  coming  into  the  room, 
“ this  has  been  Miss  Fitzalan’s  levee-day.  Why,  I declare,  my 
dear,  now  that  I know  of  the  agreeable  tete-aAetes  you  can  en- 
joy, I shall  feel  no  uneasiness  at  leaving  you  to  yourself.”  i 

Amanda  blushed  deeply ; and  Lord  Mortimer  thought  in 
this  speech  he  perceived  a degree  of  irony  which  seemed  to  say 
all  was  not  right  in  the  speaker’s  heart  towards  Amanda,  and 
on  this  account  felt  more  anxious  than  ever  to  have  her  under 
his  own  protection.  Animated  by  the  idea  that  this  would  soon 
be  the  case,  he  told  her  ladyship,  smiling,  ‘‘she  should  be 
obliged  to  him  or  any  other  person  who  could  relieve  her  mind 
from  uneasiness,”  and  departed.  This  had  been  a busy  and 
interesting  day  to  Amanda,  and  the  variety  of  emotions  it  had 
given  rise  to  produced  a languor  in  her  mind  and  frame  she 
could  not  shake  off. 

Her  expectations  were  not  as  sanguine  as  Lord  Mortimer’s. 
Once  severel}/'  disappointed,  she  dreaded  again  to  give  too 
great  a latitude  to  hope.  Happiness  was  in  view,  but  she 
doubted  much  whether  it  would  ever  be  within  her  reach  ; yet 
the  pain  of  suspense  she  endeavored  to  alleviate  by  reflecting 
that  every  event  was  under  the  direction  of  a superior  Being, 
who  knew  best  what  would  constitute  the  felicity  of  His  crea- 
tureso 

Lady  Greystock  learned  from  her  maid  the.  length  of  Lord 
Mortimer’s  visit,  and  she  was  convinced  from  that  circumstance 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


24X 


as  well  as  from  the  look  and  absent  manner  of  Amanda,  that 
something  material  had  happened  in  the  course  of  it.  In  the 
evening  they  were  engaged  to  a party,  and  ere  they  separated 
after  dinner  to  dress  for  it,  a plain-looking  woman  was  shown 
ia^o  the  room,  whom  Amanda  instantly  recollected  to  be  the 
person  at  whose  house  she  and  her  father  had  lodged  on  quitting 
Devonshire  to  secrete  themselves  from  Colonel  Belgrave.  This 
woman  had  been  bribed  to  serve  him,  and  had  forced  several 
letters  upoi'x  Amanda,  who,  therefore,  naturally  abhorred  the 
sight  of  a person  that  had  joined  in  so  infamous  a plot  against 
her ; and  to  her  exclamation  of  surprise  and  pleasure  only  re- 
turned a cool  bow,  and  directly  left  the  room.  She  was  vexed 
at  seeing  this  woman.  The  conduct  of  Colonel  Belgrave  had 
hitherto  been  concealed,  from  motives  of  pride  and  delicacy ; 
and  to  Lady  Greystock,  of  all  other  beings,  she  wished  it  not 
revealed.  Her  only  hope  of  its  not  being  so  was  that  this 
woman,  on  her  own  account,  would  not  mention  it,  as  she  must 
be  conscious  that  her  efforts  to  serve  him  were  not  undiscovered. 

Mrs.  Jennings  had  been  housekeeper  to  Lady  Greystock 
during  her  residence  in  England,  and  so  successfully  ingratiated 
herself  into  her  favor  that,  though  dismissed  from  her  service, 
she  yet  retained  it.  Lady  Greystock  was  surprised  to  see  she 
and  Amanda  knew  each  other,  and  inquired  minutely  how  the 
acquaintance  had  commenced.  The  manner  in  which  she  men- 
tioned Amanda  convinced  Mrs.  Jennings  she  was  not  high  in 
her  estimation,  and  from  this  conviction  she  thought  she  might 
safely  assert  any  falsehood  she  pleased  against  her.  As  she 
knew  enough  of  her  lady’s  disposition  to  be  assured  she  never 
would  contradict  an  assertion  to  the  prejudice  of  a person  she 
disliked  by  what  she  designed  saying,  she  trusted  anything 
Amanda  might  say  against  her  would  appear  malicious,  and 
that  she  should  also  be  revenged  for  the  disdainful  air  with 
which  she  had  regarded  her. 

She  told  her  ladyship,  ‘‘  that  near  a year  back  Miss  Fitzalan 
had  been  a lodger  of  hers,  as  also  an  old  officer,  she  called  her 
father  ; but  had  she  known  what  kind  of  people  they  were,  she 
never  would  have  admitted  them  into  her  house.  Miss  was 
followed  by  such  a set  of  gallants,  she  really  thought  the  repu- 
tation of  her  house  would  have  been  ruined.  Among  them  was 
a Colonel  Belgrave,  a sad  rake,  who,  she  believed,  was  the 
favorite.  She  was  determined  on  making  them  decamp,  when 
suddenly  Miss  went  off,  nobody  knew  where,  but  it  might  easiij 
be  guessed.  She  did  not  travel  alone,  for  the  colonel  disap- 
peared 5t  the  same  time.” 


niE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBE/. 


242 

- The  character  of  Fitzalan,  and  the  uniform  propriety  of 
Amanda’s  conduct,  forbade  Lady  Greystock’s  giving  implicit 
credit  to  what  Mrs.  Jennings  said.  She  perceived  in  it  the 
exaggerations  of  malice  and  falsehood,  occasioned,  she  sup- 
posed by  disappointed  avarice,  or  offended  pride.  She  re- 
solved, however,  to  relate  all  she  heard  to  the  marchioness, 
without  betraying  the  smallest  doubt  of  its  veracity. 

It  may  appear  strange  that  Lady  Greystock,  after  taking 
Amanda,  unsolicited,  under  her  protection,  should,  without  any 
cause  for  enmity,  seek  to  injure  her — but  Lady  Greystock  was 
a woman  devoid  of  principle.  From  selfish  motives  she  had 
taken  Amanda,  and  from  selfish  motives  she  was  ready  to 
sacrifice  her.  Her  ladyship  had  enjoyed  so  much  happiness 
in  her  matrimonial  connections,  that  she  had  no  objection 
again  to  enter  the  lists  of  Hymen,  and  Lord  Cherbury  was  the 
object  at  which  her  present  wishes  pointed.  The  marchioness 
had  hinted,  in  pretty  plain  terms,  that  if  she  counteracted  Lord 
Mortimer’s  intentions  respecting  Amanda,  she  would  forward 
hers  relative  to  Lord  Cherbury. 

She  thought  what  Mrs.  Jennings  had  alleged  would  effectu- 
ally forward  their  plans,  as  she  knew,  if  called  upon,  she  would 
support  it.  The  next  morning  she  went  to  Portman  Square, 
to  communicate  her  important  intelligence  to  the  marchioness 
and  Lady  Euphrasia. 

Joy  and  exultation  sat  upon  their  features  at  receiving  this 
interesting  communication,  which  opened  so  charming  a pros- 
pect of  separating  Lord  Mortimer  from  Amanda,  by  giving 
them  the  power  of  injuring  her  character.  This  joy  and  exulta- 
tion they  deemed  requisite  for  some  time  to  conceal.  They 
considered  their  measures  would  be  more  successful  for  being 
gradually  brought  about,  and,  therefore,  resolved  rather  to 
undermine,  than  directly  strike  at  the  peace  of  Amanda. 

Like  Lady  Greystock,  they  disbelieved  Mrs.  Jenning’s  talc  ; 
but,  like  her  ladyship,  confined  this  disbelief  to  their  owu 
bosoms.  In  the  manner,  the  appearance  of  Amanda,  there  was 
an  innocence,  a mildness,  that  denoted  something  holy  dwelt 
within  her  breast,  and  forbade  the  entrance  of  any  impure  or 
wayward  passion ; besides,  from  a gentleman  who  had  resided 
in  Devonshire,  they  learned  the  distress  Fitzalan  was  reduced 
to,  by  Belgrave’s  revenge  for  the  virtue  of  his  daughter.  This 
gentleman  was  now,  however,  on  the  continent,  and  they  had 
no  fear  of  their  allegations  against  Amanda  being  contradicted, 
ar  their  schemes  against  her  being  overthrown. 

After  some  consultation,  it  was  agreed,  as  a means  of  exp^ 


THE  CHILDREN-  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


243 


diting  their  plot,  that  Lady  Greystock  and  Amanda  should 
immediately  remove  to  the  marchioness’s  house.  By  this 
change  of  abode,  too,  Lord  Mortimer  would  be  prevented  taking 
any  material  step  relative  to  Amanda,  till  the  period  arrived, 
when  his  own  inclination  would,  most  probably,  render  any 
further  trouble  on  that  account  unnecessary. 

Lady  Greystock,  on  her  return  to  Pall  Mall,  after  a warm 
eulogium  on  the  friendship  of  the  marchioness,  mentioned  the 
invitation  she  had  given  them  to  her  house,  which  she  declared 
she  could  not  refuse,  as  it  was  made  with  an  ardent  desire  of 
enjoying  more  of  their  society  than  she  had  hitherto  done, 
during  their  short  stay  in  London.  She  also  told  Amanda,  that 
both  the  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia  had  expressed  a 
tender  regard  for  her,  and  a wish  of  proving  to  the  world,  that 
any  coolness  which  existed  between  their  families  was  re- 
moved, by  her  becoming  their  guest. 

This  projected  removal  was  extremely  disagreeable  to 
Amanda,  as  it  not  only  terminated  the  morning  interviews  which 
were  to  take  place  between  her  and  Lord  Mortimer,  during  the 
absence  of  Lady  Greystock  with  her  lawyers,  but  threatened  to 
impose  a restraint  upon  her  looks,  as  well  as  actions,  being 
confident,  from  the  views  and  suspicions  of  Lady  Euphrasia, 
she  should  be  continually  watched  with  the  closest  circumspec- 
tion. Her  part,  however,  was  acquiescence.  The  lodgmgs 
were  discharged,  and  the  next  morning  they  took  up  their  resi 
dence  under  the  -Marquis  of  Roslin’s  roof,  to  the  infinite  sur- 
prise and  mortification  of  Lord  Mortimer,  who,  like  Amanda, 
anticipated  the  disagreeable  consequences  which  would  result 
from  it. 

The  altered  manners  of  the  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphra- 
sia surprised  Amanda.  They  received  her  not  merely  with 
politeness,  but  affection  ; recapitulated  all  Lady  Greystock  had 
already  said  concerning  their  regard  ; bade  her  consider  her- 
self entirely  at  home  in  their  house,  and  appointed  a maid 
solely  to  attend  her. 

Notwithstanding  their  former  cool,  even  contemptuous  con- 
duct, Amanda,  the  child  of  innocence  and  simplicity,  could  not 
believe  the  alteration  in  their  manners  feigned  ; she  rather  be- 
lieved that  her  own  patience  and  humility  had  at  length  con- 
ciliated their  regard.  The  idea  pleased  her,  and  like  every 
other,  which  she  supposed  could  give  her  father  satisfaction,  it 
was  instantly  communicated  to  him. 

She  found  herself  most  agreeably  mistaken  relative  to  the 
restraint  she  had  feared.  She  was  perfect  mistress  of  her  own 


244 


THh  kfHiLDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


time  and  actions ; and  when  she  saw  Lord  Mortimer  no  low^ 
ering  looks  nor  studied  interference,  as  heretofore,  from  the 
marchioness  or  Lady  Euphrasia,  prevented  their  frequently 
conversing  together.  The  marchioness  made  her  several  ele- 
gant presents,  and  Lady  Euphrasia  frequently  dropped  the 
formal  appellation  of  Miss  Fitzalan  for  the  more  familiar  one 
of  Amanda. 

Sir  Charles  Bingley,  agreeable  to  his  resolution  of  not  re- 
linquishing Amanda  without  another  effort  for  her  favor,  still 
persisted  in  his  attentions,  and  visited  constantly  at  the  mar- 
quis’s. 

Amanda  had  been  about  a fortnight  in  Portman  Square, 
when  she  went  one  night  with  the  marchioness,  Lady  Euphrasia, 
Miss  Malcolm,  and  Lady  Greystock  to  the  Pantheon.  Lord 
Mortimer  had  told  her,  that  if  he  could  possibly  leave  a particu- 
lar party  he  was  engaged  to,  he  would  be  there.  She,  there- 
fore, on  that  account,  wished  to  keep  herself  disengaged ; but 
immediately  on  her  entrance  she  was  joined  by  Sir  Charles 
Bingley,  and  she  found  she  must  either  dance  with  him  as  he 
requested,  or  consent  to  listen  to  his  usual  conversation ; and 
she  chose  the  first,  as  being  least  particular.  The  dancing 
over.  Sir  Charles  was  conducting  her  to  get  some  refreshments, 
when  a gentleman,  hastily  stepping  forward,  saluted  him  by  his 
name.  Amanda  started  at  the  sound  of  his  voice  ; she  raised 
her  e37-es,  and  with  equal  horror  and  surprise  beheld  Colonel 
Belgrave. 

She  turned  pale,  trembled,  and  involuntarily  exclaimed, 
‘‘Gracious  Heaven  ! ’’  Her  soul  recoiled  at  his  sight,  as  if  an 
evil  genius  had  suddenly  darted  into  her  path  to  blast  her  hopes 
of  happiness.  Sickening  with  emotion,  her  head  grew  giddy, 
and  she  caught  Sir  Charles’s  arm  to  prevent  her  falling. 

Alarmed  by  her  paleness  and  agitation,  he  hastily  demanded 
the  cause  of  her  disorder,  willing  to  believe,  notwithstanding 
what  he  had  seen,  that  it  did  not  proceed  from  the  sight  of 
Colonel  Belgrave.  “ O take  me,  take  me  from  this  room  ! ” 
was  all,  in  faltering  accents,  Amanda  could  pronounce,  still 
leaning  on  him  for  support.  Colonel  Belgrave  inquired  tenderly 
what  he  could  do  to  serve  her,  and  at  the  same  time  attempted 
to  take  her  hand.  She  shrunk  from  his  touch  with  a look  ex- 
pressive of  horror,  and  again  besought  Sir  Charles  to  take  her 
from  the  room,  and  procure  her  a conveyance  home.  Her 
agitation  now  became  contagious.  It  was  visible  to  Sir  Charles 
that  it  proceeded  from  seeing  Colonel  Belgrave,  and  he  trem- 
bled as  he  supported  her. 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


24S 

Belgrave  offered  his  services  in  assisting  to  support  her 
from  the  room,  but  she  motioned  with  her  hand  to  repulse  him. 

At  the  door  they  met  Lord  Mortimer  entering.  Terrified 
by  the  situation  of  Amanda,  all  caution,  all  reserve  forsook 
him,  and  his  rapid  and  impassioned  inquiries  betrayed  the 
tender  interest  she  had  in  his  heart.  Unable  to  answer  them 
herself,  Sir  Charles  replied  for  her,  saying,  “ She  had  been 
taken  extremely  ill  after  dancing,’’  and  added,  ‘‘  he  would 
resign  her  to  his  lordship’s  protection  while  he  went  to  pro- 
cure  her  a chair.” 

Lord  IMortimer  received  the  lovely  trembler  in  his  arms.  He 
softly  called  her  his  Amanda,  the  beloved  of  his  soul,  and  she 
began  to  revive.  His  presence  was  at  once  a relief  and  com- 
fort to  her,  and  his  language  soothed  the  perturbations  of  her 
mind  ; but  as  she  raised  her  head  from  his  shoulder,  she  be- 
held Colonef  Belgrave  standing  near  them.  His  invidious 
eyes  fastened  on  her.  She  averted  her  head,  and,  saying  the 
air  would  do  her  good.  Lord  Mortimer  led  her  forward,  and 
took  this  opportunity  of  expressing  his  wishes  for  the  period 
when  he  should  be  at  liberty  to  watch  over  her  with  guardian 
care,  soothe  every  weakness  and  soften  every  care. 

In  a few  minutes  Sir  Charles  returned,  and  told  her  he  had 
procured  a chair.  She  thanked  him  with  grateful  sweetness 
for  his  attention,  and  requested  Lord  Mortimer  to  acquaint 
the  ladies  with  the  reason  of  her  abrupt  departure.  His  lord- 
ship  v/ished  himself  to  have  attended  her  to  Portman  Square, 
but  she  thought  it  would  appear  too . particular,  and  would  not 
suffer  him.  She  retired  to  her  room  immediately  on  her  return, 
and  endeavored,  though  unsuccessfully,  to  compose  her  spirits. 

The  distress  she  suffered  from  Belgrave’s  conduct  had  left 
an  impression  on  her  mind  which  could  not  be  erased.  The 
terror  his  presence  inspired  was  too  powerful  for  reason  to 
conquer,  and  raised  the  most  gloomy  presages  in  her  mind. 
She  believed  him  capable  of  any  villany.  His  looks  had  de- 
clared a continuance  of  illicit  love.  She  trembled  at  the  idea 
of  his  stratagems  being  renewed.  Her  apprehensions  were 
doubly  painful  from  the  necessity  of  concealment,  lest  those 
dearer  to  her  than  existence  should  be  involved  in  danger  on 
her  account.  To  Heaven  she  looked  up  for  protection,  and  the 
terrors  of  her  heart  were  somewhat  lessened,  conscious  that 
Heaven  could  render  the  aims  of  Belgrave  against  her  peace  as 
abortive  as  those  against  her  innocence  had  been. 

Sir  Charles  Bingley  parted  from  Lord  Mortimer  immedi- 
ately after  Amanda's  departure,  and  returned  arm  in  arm  with 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


24D 

Belgrave  to  the  room.  “ Belgrave,”  said  he  abruptly,  after 
musing  some  minutes,  ‘‘  you  know  Miss  Fitzalan  ? 

Belgrave  answered  not  hastily.  He  appeared  as  if  deliber- 
ating on  the  reply  he  should  give.  At  last,  I do  know  Miss 
Fitzalan,”  cried  he  ; “ her  father  was  my  tenant  in  Devonshire  ; 
she  is  one  of  the  loveliest  girls  I ever  knew.”  ‘‘  Lovely,  indeed,” 
said  Sir  Charles,  with  a deep  and  involuntary  sigh  ; ‘‘  but  it  is 
somewhat  extraordinary  to  me  that,  instead  of  noticing  you  as 
a friend  or  acquaintance,  she  should  look  alarmed  and  agitated, 
as  if  she  had  seen  an  enemy.”  My  dear  Bingley,”  exclaimed 
Belgrave,  ‘‘  surely  at  this  time  of  day  you  cannot  be  a stranger 
to  the  unaccountable  caprices  of  the  female  mind.”  ’Tis 
very  extraordinary  to  me,  I own,”  resumed  Sir  Charles,  that 
Miss  Fitzalan  should  behave  as  she  did  to  you.  Were  you 
and  her  family  ever  very  intimate  ? ” 

An  invidious  smile  lurked  on  Belgrave’s  countenance  at 
this  question. 

“Belgrave,”  exclaimed  Sir  Charles,  passionately,  “ youi 
manner  appears  so  mysterious  that  it  distracts  me.  If  friend 
ship  will  not  induce  you  to  account  for  it,  my  intentions  rela- 
tive to  Miss  Fitzalan  will  compel  me  to  insist  on  your  doing 
so.”  “ Come,  come,  Bingley,”  replied  the  colonel,  “ this  is 
not  a country  for  extorting  confession.  However,  seriously, 
you  might  depend  on  my  honor,  exclusive  of  my  friendship,  to 
conceal  nothing  from  you  in  which  you  were  materially  in- 
terested.” So  saying,  he  snatched  away  his  arm,  rushed  into 
the  crowd,  and  instantly  disappeared. 

This  assurance,  however,  could  not  calm  the  disquietude  of 
Sir  Charles.  His  soul  was  tortured  with  impatience  and  anx- 
iety for  an  explanation  of  the  mystery,  which  the  agitation  of 
Amanda,  and  the  evasive  answers  of  Belgrave  had  betrayed. 
He  sought  the  latter  through  the  room  till  convinced  of  his 
departure,  and  resolved  the  next  morning  to  entreat  him  to 
deal  candidly  with  him. 

Agreeably  to  this  resolution,  he  was  preparing,  after  break-  ' 
fast,  for  his  visit,  when  a letter  was  brought  him  which  con- 
tained the  following  lines  : — 

“ If  Sir  Charles  Bingley  has  the  least  regard  for  his  honor  or  tranquillity, 
he  will  immediately  relinquish  his  intentions  relative  to  Miss  Fitzalan.  This 
caution  comes  from  a sincere  friend — from  a person  whom  delicacy,  not 
want  of  veracity,  urges  to  this  secret  mode  of  giving  it.” 

Sir  Charles  perused  and  re-perused  the  letter,  as  if  doubt- 
ing the  evidence  of  his  eyes.  He  at  last  flung  it  from  him,  and 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


24> 


clasping  his  hands  together  exclaimed  : This  is  indeed  a 
horrible  explanation.”  He  took  up  the  detested  paper.  Again 
he  examined  the  characters,  and  recognized  the  v/riting  of 
Colonel  Belgrave.  He  hastily  snatched  up  his  hat,  and  with 
the  paper  in  his  hand,  flew  directly  to  his  house.  The  colonel 
was  alone. 

“ Belgrave,”  said  Sir  Charles,  in  almost  breathless  agitation, 
are  you  the  author  of  this  letter  ? ” presenting  it  to  him. 

Belgrave  took  it,  read  it,  but  continued  silent. 

Oh ! Belgrave  ! ” exclaimed  Sir  Charles,  in  a voice  trem- 
bling with  agony,  ‘‘  pity  and  relieve  my  suspense.”  “ I am  the 
author  of  it,”  replied  Belgrave,  with  solemnity  ; Miss  Fitz- 
alan  and  I were  once  tenderly  attached.  I trust  I am  no  delib- 
erate libertine ; but,  when  a lovely,  seducing  girl  was  thrown 

purposely  in  my  way ” ‘‘Oh,  stop,”  said  Sir  Charles, 

“ to  me  any  extenuation  of  your  conduct  is  unnecessary ) ‘tis 
sufficient  to  know  that  Miss  Fitzalan  and  I are  forever  separa- 
ted.” His  emotion  overpowered  him.  He  leaned  on  a table, 
and  covered  his  face  with  a handkerchief. 

“ The  shock  I have  received,”  said  he,  “ almost  unmans 
me.  Amanda  was,  alas  ! I must  say  is,  dear,  inexpressibly 
dear  to  my  soul.  I thought  her  the  most  lovely,  the  most 
estimable  of  women  ; and  the  anguish  I now  feel,  is  more  on 
her  account  than  my  own.  1 cannot  bear  the  idea  of  the  con- 
tempt which  may  fall  upon  her.  Oh,  Belgrave,  his  melancholy 
to  behold  a human  being,  so  endowed  by  nature  as  she  is,  in 
sensible  or  unworthy  of  her  blessings.  Amanda,”  he  continued, 
after  a pause,  “ never  encouraged  me  ; I therefore  cannot  ac* 
cuse  her  of  intending  deceit.” 

“ She  never  encouraged  you,”  replied  Belgrave,  “ because 
she  was  ambitious  of  a higher  title.  Amanda,  beneath  a 
specious  appearance  of  innocence,  conceals  a light  disposition 
and  a designing  heart.  She  aspires  to  Mortimer’s  hand,  and 
may  probably  succeed,  for  his  language  and  attentions  to  her 
last  night  were  those  of  a tender  lover.” 

“ I shall  return  immediately  to  Ireland,”  said  Sir  Charles, 

“ and  endeavor  to  forget  I have  ever  seen  her.  She  has  made 
me  indeed  experience  all  the  fervency  of  love,  and  bitterness 
of  disappointment.  What  I felt  for  her,  I think  I shall  never 
again  feel  for  anv  woman. 

“ — I’ll  lock  up  all  the  gates  of  love. 

And  on  my  eyelids  shall  conjecture  hang, 

To  turn  all  beauty  into  thoughts  of  harm. 

And  never  n>ore  shall  it  be  veracious,” 


248  the  children  of  the  abbey.  ^ 

Sir  Charles  Bingley  and  Colonel  Belgrave,  in  early  life,  had 
contracted  a friendship  for  each  other  which  time  had  strength- 
ened in  one,  but  reduced  to  a mere  shadow  in  the  other.  On 
meeting  the  colonel  unexpectedly  in  town,  Sir  Charles  had 
informed  him  of  his  intentions  relative  to  Amanda.  His  heart 
throbbed  at  the  mention  of  her  name.  He  had  long  endeavored 
to  discover  her.  Pride,  love,  and  revenge,  were  all  concerned 
in  the  accomplishment  of  his  designs,  which  disappointment 
had  only  stimulated.  He  was  one  of  those  determined  charac- 
ters which  never  relinquish  a purpose,  though  heaven  and 
earth  that  purpose  crossed,’’  The  confidence  Sir  Charles  re- 
posed in  him,  joined  to  his  warm  and  unsuspicious  temperi 
convinced  him  he  would  be  credulous  enough  to  believe  any 
imputation  he  should  cast  on  Amanda.  He  therefore  lost  nc 
time  in  contriving  this  execrable  scheme,  without  the  smallest 
compunction,  for  destroying  the  reputation  of  an  innocent  girl, 
or  injuring  the  happiness  of  an  amiable  man. 

Removed  from  the  protection  of  her  father,  he  believed  his 
destined  victim  could  not  escape  the  snare  he  should  spread 
for  her  ; and  as  a means  of  expediting  his  success,  under  the 
appearance  of  feeling,  urged  Sir  Charles’s  return  to  Ireland. 

The  easy  credit  which  Sir  Charles  gave  to  the  vile  allega- 
tions of  Belgrave,  cannot  be  wondered  at,  when  his  long  inti- 
macy and  total  ignorance  of  his  real  character  are  considered. 
He  knew  Belgrave  to  be  a gay  man,  but  he  never  imagined  him 
to  be  a hardened  libertine.  Besides,  he  never  could  have  sup- 
posed any  man  would  have  been  so  audacious,  or  sufficiently 
base,  as  to  make  such  an  assertion  as  Belgrave  had  done  against 
Amanda,  without  truth  for  his  support. 

The  errors  of  his  friend,  though  the  source  of  unspeakable 
anguish  to  him,  were  more  pitied  than  condemned,  as  he  rather 
believed  they  proceeded  from  the  impetuosity  of  passion,  than 
the  deliberation  of  design,  and  that  they  were  long  sincr 
sincerely  repented  of. 

Amanda  could  not  be  forgotten  ; the  hold  she  had  on  his 
heart  could  not  easily  be  shaken  off ; and  like  the  recording 
angel,  he  was  often  tempted  to  drop  a tear  over  her  faults,  and 
obliterate  them  forever  from  his  memory.  This,  however,  was 
considered  the  mere  suggestion  of  weakness,  and  he  ordered 
immediate  preparations  to  be  made  for  his  return  to  Ireland- 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


249 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

Oh  how  this  tyrant  doubt  torments  my  breast  I 
My  thoughts,  like  birds,  who  frighted  from  their  rest. 

Around  the  place  where  all  was  hushed  before. 

Flutter,  and  hardly  settle  any  more.” — Otway. 

Lord  Mortimer,  distressed  by  the  indisposition  of  Amanda, 
hastened,  at  an  earlier  hour  than  usual  (for  his  morning  visits), 
to  Portman  Square,  and  was  ushered  into  Lady  Euphrasia’s 
dressing-room,  where  she  and  Miss  Malcolm,  who  had  con- 
tinued with  her  the  preceding  night,  were  sitting  tete-a-tete  at 
breakfast.  His  lordship  was  a welcome  visitor,  but  it  was  soon 
obvious  on  whose  account  he  had  made  his  appearance,  for 
scarcely  were  the  usual  compliments  over,  ere  he  inquired 
about  Miss  Fitzalan. 

Lady  Euphrasia  said  she  was  still  unwell,  and  had  not  yet 
left  her  apartment.  She  has  not  recovered  her  surprise  of 
last  night,”  exclaimed  Miss  Malcolm,  with  a malicious  smile. 
‘‘  What  surprise  ? ” asked  his  lordship.  Dear  me,”  replied 
Miss  Malcolm,  “ was  not  your  lordship  present  at  the  time  she 
met  Colonel  Belgrave  ? ” “ No,”  said  Lord  Mortimer,  changing 
color,  ‘‘  I was  not  present.  But  what  has  Colonel  Belgrave  to 
say  to  Miss  Fitzalan  ? ” asked  he,  in  an  agitated  voice.  Hiat 
is  a question  your  lordship  must  put  to  the  young  lady  herself,” 
answered  Miss  Malcolm.  ‘‘  Now,  I declare,”  cried  Lady 
Euphrasia,  addressing  her  friend,  “ ’tis  very  probable  her  illness 
did  not  proceed  from  seeing  Colonel  Belgrave — you  know  she 
never  mentioned  being  acquainted  with  him,  though  her  father 
was  his  tenant  in  Devonshire.” 

Lord  Mortimer  grew  more  disturbed,  and  rose  abruptly. 

Lady  Euphrasia  mentioned  their  intention  of  going  that 
evening  to  the  play,  and  invited  him  to  be  of  the  party.  He 
accepted  her  invitation,  and  retired. 

His  visible  distress  was  a source  of  infinite  mirth  to  the 
young  ladies,  which  they  indulged  the  moment  he  quitted  the 
room.  The  circumstance  relative  to  Belgrave,  the  marchioness 
had  informed  them  of,  as  she  and  Lady  Greystock  were  near 
Amanda  when  she  met  him. 

Lord  Mortimer  was  unhappy.  The  mind  which  has  once 
harbored  suspicion  will,  from  the  most  trivial  circumstance,  be 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. ' 


250 

tempted  ugBin  to  give  admission  to  the  unpleasing  guest — nor 
was  it  a trivial  circumstance  which  discomposed  the  too  sus- 
ceptible heart  of  Mortimer.  The  sudden  illness  of  Amanda, 
her  extraordinary  agitation,  her  eagerness  to  quit  the  room,  the 
cio-:e,  though  silent  attendance  of  Belgrave — all  these,  I say, 
when  recalled  to  recollection,  gave  an  air  of  probability  to  Miss 
Malcolm’s  insinuation,  that  her  disorder  was  occasioned  by 
seeing  him.  From  residing  more  constantly  in  England  than 
Sir  Charles  Bingley  had  done,  he  had  had  more  opportunities 
of  learning  Belgrave’s  real  character,  which  he  knew  to  be  that 
of  a professed  libertine.  It  was  strange,  he  thought,  that  when 
Amanda  informed  him  she  once  resided  in  Devonshire,  she 
should  conceal  her  father  being  the  colonel’s  tenant.  He  began 
to  think  her  reluctance  to  a clandestine  and  immediate  marriage 
might  have  proceeded  from  some  secret  attachment,  and  not 
from  the  strict  adherence  to  filial  dut},  which  had  exalted  her 
so  much  in  his  opinion. 

Yet  the  idea  was  scarcely  formed,  ere  he  endeavored  to 
suppress  it.  He  started,  as  if  from  an  uneasy  dream,  and 
wondered  how  he  could  have  conceived  this,  or  any  other  idea, 
injurious  to  Amanda.  He  felt  a degree  of  remorse  at  having 
allow^ed  her,  for  a moment,  to  be  lessened  in  his  opinion — her 
tenderness,  her  purity,  he  said  to  himself,  could  not  be  feigned  ; 
no,  she  was  a treasure  greater  than  he  deserved  to  possess  ; nor 
would  he,  like  a w^ayward  son  of  error,  fling  away  the  hap- 
piness he  had  so  long  desired  to  obtain. 

The  calm  this  resolution  produced  was  but  transient. 
Doubts  had  been  raised,  and  doubt  could  not  be  banished ; he 
was  inclined  to  think  them  unjust,  yet  had  not  power  to  dispel 
them.  Vainly  he  applied  to  the  ideas  which  had  heretofore 
been  such  consolatory  resources  of  comfort  to  him — namely, 
that  his  father  would  consent  to  his  union  with  Amanda, 
through  the  interference  of  his  aunt,  and  the  felicity  he  should 
enjoy  in  that  union.  An  unusual  heaviness  clung  to  his  heart, 
which,  like  a gloomy  sky,  cast  a shade  of  sadness  over  every 
prospect.  Thoughtful  and  pensive  he  reached  home,  just  as 
Sir  Charles  Bingley  was  entering  the  door,  who  informed  him 
he  had  just  received  a note  from  Lord  Cherbury,  desiring  his 
immediate  presence. 

Lord  Mortimer  attended  him  to  the  earl,  who  acquaintec" 
him,  that  he  had  received  a letter  from  Mr.  Fitzalan,  in  whicl: 
he  expressed  a warm  sense  of  the  honor  Sir  Charles  did  his 
family,  by  addressing  Miss  Fitzalan  ; and  that  to  have  her 
united  to  a character  so  truly  estimable,  Avould  give  him  the 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


251 


truest  happiness,  from  the  conviction  that  hers  would  b( 
secured  by  such  a union.  “ He  has  written  to  his  daughter  ex 
pressing  his  sentiments,’’  continued  Lord  Cherbury«  ‘‘  I have 
therefore  no  doubt.  Sir  Charles,  but  that  everything  will  succeed 
as  you  wish.”  I am  sorry,  my  lord,”  cried  Sir  Charles,  witl: 
an  agitated  voice,  and  a cheek  flushed  with  emotion,  that  1 
ever  troubled  your  lordship  in  this  affair,  as  I have  now,  and 
forever,  relinquished  all  ideas  of  a union  with  Miss  Fitzalan,,^' 
‘‘  The  resolution  is  really  somewhat  extraordinary  and  sudden, 
replied  the  earl,  ‘‘after  the  conversation  which  so  lately  passed 
between  us,”  “ Adopted,  however,  my  lord,  from  a thorough 
conviction  that  happiness  could  never  be  attained  in  a union 
with  that  young  ladyo”  Sir  Charles’s  tenderness  for  Amanda 
was  still  undiminished  ; he  wished  to  preserve  her  from  censure, 
and  thus  proceeded : “ Your  lordship  must  allow  I could  have 
little  chance  of  happiness  in  allying  myself  to  a woman  who  hag 
resolutely  and  uniformly  treated  me  with  indifference.  Passion 
blinded  my  reason  when  I addressed  your  lordship  relative  tc 
Miss  Fitzalan  ; but  its  mists  are  now  dispersed,  and  sobei 
reflection  obliges  me  to  relinquish  a scheme,  whose  accomplish- 
ment could  not  possibly  give  me  satisfaction.”  “ You  are 
certainly  the  best  judge  of  your  own  actions.  Sir  Charles,^' 
replied  the  earl.  “ My  acting  in  the  affair  proceeded  from  a 
wish  to  serve  you,  as  well  as  from  my  friendship  for  Captain 
Fitzalan.  I must  suppose  your  conduct  will  never  disparage 
your  own  honor,  or  cast  a slight  upon  Miss  Fitzalan.”  “ That, 
my  lord,  you  may  b^  assured  of,”  said  Sir  Charles,  with  some 
warmth ; “ my  actions  and  their  motives  have  hitherto,  and 
will  ever,  I trust,  bear  the  strictest  investigation.  I cannot 
retire  without  thanking  your  lordship  for  the  interest  you  took 
in  my  favor.  Had  things  succeeded  as  I then  hoped  and  ex- 
pected, I cannot  deny  but  I should  have  been  much  happiei 
than  I am  at  present.”  He  then  bowed  and  retired. 

Lord  Mortimer  had  listened  with  astonishment  to  Sir 
Charles’s  relinquishment  of  Amanda.  Like  his  father,  he 
thought  it  a sudden  and  extraordinary  resolution.  He  was 
before  jealous  of  Amanda’s  love  ; he  was  now  jealous  of  hei 
honor.  The  agitation  of  Sir  Charles  seemed  to  imply  even  a 
cause  more  powerful  than  her  coldness  for  resigning  her.  He 
recollected  that  the  baronet  and  the  colonel  were  intimate 
friends.  Distracted  by  apprehensions,  he  rushed  out  of  the 
house,  and  overtook  Sir  Charles  ere  he  had  quitted  the  square. 

“ Why,  Bingley,”  cried  he,  with  affected  gayety,  I though" 
you  too  valiant  a knight  to  be  easily  overcome  by  despair ; ano 


252 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


that  without  first  trying  every  effort  to  win  her  favor,  you  never 
would  give  up  a fair  lady  you  had  set  your  heart  on.’’  I leave 
such  efforts  for  your  lordship,”  replied  Sir  Charles,  or  those 
who  have  equal  patience.”  But  seriously,  Bingley,  I think 
this  sudden  resignation  of  Miss  Fitzalan  somewhat  strange. 
Why,  last  night  I could  have  sworn  you  were  as  much  attached 
to  her  as  ever.  From  Lord  Cherbury's  friendship  for  Captain 
Fitzalan,  I think  her,  in  some  degree,  under  his  protection  and 
mine^  And  as  the  particularity  of  your  attention  attracted 
observation,  I think  your  abruptly  withdrawing  them  requires 
explanation.”  ‘‘As  Lord  Cherbury  was  the  person  I applied 
to  relative  to  Miss  Fitzalan,”  exclaimed  Sir  Charles,  “ and  as 
he  was  satisfied  with  the  motive  I assigned  for  my  conduct,  be 
assured,  my  lord,  I shall  never  give  another  to  you.”  “Your 
words,”  retorted  Lord  Mortimer,  with  warmth,  “ imply  that 
there  was  another  motive  for  your  conduct  than  the  one  you 
avowed.  What  horrid  inference  may  not  be  drawn  from  such 
an  insinuation  ? Oh  ! Sir  Charles  ! reputation  is  a fragile 
flower,  which  the  slightest  breath  may  injure.”  “ My  lord,  if 
Miss  Fitzalan’s  reputation  is  never  injured  but  by  my  means, 
it  will  ever  continue  unsullied.” 

“I  cannot,  indeed,”  resumed  Lord  Mortimer,  “ style  my- 
self her  guardian,  but  I consider  myself  her  friend  : and  from 
the  feelings  of  friendship,  shall  ever  evince  my  interest  in  her 
welfare,  and  resent  any  conduct  which  can  possibly  render  her 
an  object  of  censure  to  any  being.”  “ Allow  me  to  ask  your 
lordship  one  question,”  cried  Sir  Charles,,  “ and  promise,  on 
your  honor,  to  answer  it.”  “ I do  promise,”  said  Lord  Morti- 
mer. “ Then,  my  lord,  did  you  ever  really  wish  I should  suc- 
ceeded with  Miss  Fitzalan 't  ” 

Lord  Mortimer  colored.  “You  expect.  Sir  Charles,  I shall 
answer  you  on  my  honor?  Then,  really,  I never  did.”  “ Your 
passions  and  mine,”  continued  Sir  Charles,  “ are  impetuous. 
We  had  better  check  them  in  time,  lest  they  lead  us  to  lengths 
we  may  hereafter  repent  of  Of  Mis^  Fitzalan’s  fame,  b^ 
assured,  no  man  can  be  more  tenacious  than  I should.  I love 
her  with  the  truest  ardor.  Her  acceptance  of  my  proposalr 
would  have  given  me  felicity.  My  suddenly  withdrawing 
can  never  injure  her,  when  I declare  my  motive  for  so  doing 
was  her  indifference.  Lord  Cherbury  is  satisfied  with  tha 
reason  I have  assigned  for  resigning  her.  He  is  conscious 
that  no  man  of  sensibility  could  experience  happiness  with  a 
woman  in  whose  heart  he  had  no  interest.  This,  I suppose,  }’Our 
lordship  will  also  allow.”  “ Certainly,”  replied  Lord  Mortimer. 


THE  CHILDREH  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


2S3 


‘^Tiien,  it  strikes  me,  my  lord,  that  it  is  your  conduct,  not 
mine,  which  has  a tendency  to  injure  Miss  Fitzalan.  That  it 
is  your  words,  not  mine,  which  convey  an  insinuation  against 
her.  You  really  appear  as  if  conscious  some  other  cause  ex^ 
isted,  which  would  have  made  me  relinquish  her,  without  the 
one  I have  already  assigned  for  doing  so.’’ 

Lord  Mortimer  was  instantly  convicted  of  the  justice  of 
what  Sir  Charles  said.  He  began  to  fear  his  warmth  would 
really  prove  prejudicial  to  Amanda,  betray  the  doubts  that  had 
obtruded  on  his  mind,  and  communicate  them  to  those  who 
might  not  be  equally  influenced  by  tenderness  and  delicacy  to 
conceal  them. 

You  are  right,  Sir  Charles,”  said  he,  ^‘in  what  you  have 
said  ; passion,  like  a bad  advocate,  hurts  the  cause  in  which 
it  is  engaged.  From  my  knowledge  of  your  character,  I should 
have  been  convinced  your  honor  would  have  prevented  any 
improper  conduct.  You  are  going  to  Ireland.  Permit  me, 
Sir  Charles,  to  offer  you  my  best  wishes  for  your  future  happi- 
ness.” 

Sir  Charles  took  Lord  Mortimer’s  extended  hand.  He 
respected  and  esteemed  his  lordship,  and  a mutual  interchange 
of  good  wishes  took  place  between  them,  as  this  was  the  last 
interview  they  expected  for  a long  time. 

The  indisposition  of  Amanda  was  more  of  the  mental  thr»n 
the  bodily  kind,  and  on  the  first  intimation  of  a party  to  the. 
play  she  agreed  to  join  it,  in  hopes  the  amusement  would  re- 
remove her  dejection.  Her  father’s  letter,  relative  to  Sir 
Charles  Bingley,  had  given  her  some  uneasiness  ; but  as  he 
left  her  free  to  act,  she  contented  herself  with  using  thi 
negative  he  allowed  her,  by  a solemn  resolution  of  never  act- 
ing contrary  to  his  inclinations,  and  answered  his  letter  to  this 
purpose. 

Lord  Mortimer  and  Freelove  attended  the  ladies  in  the 
'Evening  to  the  play.  Flis  lordship  found  an  opportunity  of 
tenderly  inquiring  after  Amanda’s  health.  When  they  were 
seated  in  the  house  he  perceived  a lady  in  another  box  to 
whom  he  wished  to  speak,  and  accordingly  left  his  party.  This 
lady  offered  him  a seat  by  herself,  which  he  accepted.  She 
was  a stranger  to  Amanda,  young  and  extremely  beautiful. 
Amanda,  however,  had  none  of  that  foolish  weakness  which 
could  make  her  dread  a rival  in  every  new  face,  or  feel  uneasi- 
ness at  Lord  Mortimer’s  attention  to  any  woman  but  herself. 
Assured  that  his  affections  for  her  were  founded  on  the  basis 

esteem,  and  that  she  should  retain  them  while  worthy  oK 


^54 


CHILDREN’  OE  THE  ABBEY. 


esteem,  she  could,  without  being  discomposed  by  the  agreeable 
conversation  he  appeared  to  be  enjoying,  fix  her  attention  on 
the  stage ; so  entirely,  indeed,  that  she  observed  not  from  time 
to  time,  the  glances  Lord  Mortimer  directed  towards  her.  Not 
so  his  fair  companion.  She  noticed  the  wanderings  of  his  eyes, 
and  her  own  involuntarily  pursued  their  course.  She  was 
speaking  at  the  moment,  but  suddenly  stopped,  and  Lord 
Mortimer  saw  her  change  color.  He  turned  pale  himself,  and 
in  a faltering  voice,  asked  her,  ‘‘  if  she  knew  the  lady  she  had 
been  long  looking  at  ? ’’  ‘‘  Know  her  ? ’’  replied  she  j oh, 
heavens  ! but  too  well.’’ 

Lord  Mortimer  trembled  universally,  and  was  compelled  to 
have  recourse  to  his  handkerchief  to  hide  his  emotion. 

H was  by  Adela,  the  lovely  and  neglected  wife  of  Belgrave, 
he  was  sitting.  She  had  been  a short  time  in  London,  and  her 
acquaintance  with  Lord  Mortimer  commenced  at  a ball,  where 
she  had  danced  with  him.  He  was  not  one  of  those  kind  ot 
men  who,  when  in  love,  had  neither  eyes  nor  ears  but  for  the 
object  of  that  love.  He  could  see  perfections  in  other  women 
besides  his  Amanda,  and  was  particularly  pleased  with  Mrs. 
Belgrave.  He  instantly  perceived  that  she  knew  Amanda  \ 
also,  that  that  knowledge  was  attended  with  pain.  The  well- 
known  profligacy  of  her  husband  intruded  on  his  memory,  and 
he  shuddered  at  the  dreadful  thoughts  which  arose  in  his 
mind. 

Curiosity  had  directed  the  eyes  of  Adela  to  Amanda,  but 
admiration,  and  an  idea  of  having  somewhere  seen  her  face, 
riveted  them  upon  her ; at  last  the  picture  Oscar  Fitzalan  had 
shown  occurred  to  her  recollection,  and  she  was  immediately 
convinced  it  was  no  other  than  the  original  of  that  picture  she 
now  saw.  Shocked  at  the  sight  of  a person  who,  as  she  thought 
had  stepped  (though  innocently)  between  her  and  felicity,  and 
distressed  by  the  emotions  which  past  scenes,  thus  recalled, 
gave  rise  to,  she  entreated  Lord  Mortimer  to  conduct  her  from 
the  box,  that  she  might  return  home. 

He  complied  with  her  request,  but  stopped  in  the  lobby, 
and  entreated  her  to  tell  him  “ where  she  had  known  the  lady 
she  had  so  attentively  regarded.”  Adela  blushed,  and  would, 
if  possible,  have  evaded  the  question ; but  the  earnestness  of 
his  lordship’s  manner  compelled  her  to  answer  it.  She  said 
“ she  had  no  personal  knowledge  of  the  lady,  but  recollected 
her  face,  from  having  seen  her  picture  with  a gentleman.” 
‘‘And  who  was  the  gentleman  ? ” asked  Lord  Mortimer,  with 
a forced  smile  and  a faltering  voice.  “ That,”  replied  Adela. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


mth  involuntary  quickness,  I will  not  tell.’’  “ I should 
apologize,  indeed,”  cried  Lord  Mortimer,  recollecting  himself, 
for  a curiosity  which  may  appear  impertinent.”  He  led  her  to  a 
chair,  and  deliberated  whether  he  should  not  follow  her  ex- 
ample in  quitting  the  house. 

Miss  Malcolm  had  first  made  him  uneasy  : uneasiness  intro- 
duced doubts  which  Sir  Charles  Bingley  had  increased,  and 
Mrs.  Belgrave  almost  confirmed.  He  dreaded  a horrid  con- 
firmation of  his  fears  ; the  picture,  like  Othello’s  handkerchief, 
was  a source  of  unspeakable  anguish.  The  agitation  that  Mrs. 
Belgrave  had  betrayed  on  mentioning  it,  joined  to  her  conceal- 
ment of  the  gentleman  she  had  seen  it  with,  tempted  him  to 
believe  he  was  no  other  than  her  husband. 

Yet,  that  he  might  not  be  accused  of  yielding  rashly  to 
jealousy,  he  resolved  to  confine  his  suspicions,  like  his  pangs, 
to  his  own  bosom,  except  assured  they  were  well  founde^l.  A 
little  time  he  supposed,  would  determine  the  opinion  he  should 
form  of  Amanda.  If  he  found  she  encouraged  Belgrave,  he 
resolved  to  leave  her  without  any  explanation  ; if,  on  the  con- 
trary, he  saw  that  she  avoided  him,  he  meant  to  mention  the 
circumstance  of  the  picture  to  her,  yet  so  as  not  to  hurt  her 
feelings,  and  be  regulated  by  her  answer  relative  to  his  future 
conduct.  He  returned,  at  last,  to  the  box,  and  procured  a 
seat  behind  her.  He  had  not  occupied  it  long  ere  Colonel 
Belgrave  (who,  from  a retired  part  of  the  house  where  he  sat 
with  some  female  friends,  had  observed  Amanda)  entered  the 
next  box,  and  made  his  way  to  the  pillar  against  which  she 
leaned.  He  endeavored  to  catch  her  eyes,  but  the  noise  he 
made  on  entering  pat  her  on  her  guard,  and  she  instantly 
averted  her  face.  Her  embarrassment  was  visible  to  her  party, 
and  they  all.  Lord  Mortimer  excepted,  enjoyed  it.  Scarcely 
could  he  refrain  from  chastising  the  audacity  of  Belgrave’s 
looks,  who  continued  to  gaze  on  Amanda,  though  he  could  not 
see  her  face.  Nothing  but  the  discovery  which  such  a stei3 
would  produce  could  have  prevented  his  lordship,  in  his  irritable 
state  of  mind,  from  chastising  what  he  deemed  the  height  of 
insolence. 

At  last  the  hour  came  for  relieving  Amanda  from  a situation 
extremely  painful  to  her.  As  Lord  Mortimer  sat  next  the  mar- 
chioness, he  was  compelled  to  offer  her  his  hand.  Freelove  led 
Lady  Euphrasia  ; Lady  Grcystock  and  Miss  Malcolm  followed 
her,  and  Amanda  was  the  last  who  quitted  the  box.  A 
crowd  in  the  lobby  impeded  their  progress.  Amanda  was  close 
behind  the  marchioness,  when  Belgrave  forced  his  way  to  her, 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


256 

and  attempted  to  take  her  hand  at  the  very  moment  Lord  Mot  ^ 
timer  turned  to  look  at  her,  who  heard  him  say,  Dear,  though 
unkind,  Amanda,  why  this  cruel  change  in  your  conduct  ? 

The  eyes  of  Mortimer  flashed  fire.  ‘‘  Miss  Fitzalan,’’  said 
he,  in  a voice  trembling  through  passion,  ‘‘  if  you  will  accept 
my  arm,  I will  make  way  for  you,  or  at  least  secure  you  from 
impertinence.’’  Amanda,  though  trembling  and  confounded  by 
his  looks,  hesitated  not  to  accept  his  offer.  Eelgrave  knew  his 
words  alluded  to  him.  At  present,  however,  he  resolved  not 
to  resent  them,  convinced,  that  if  he  did,  his  views  on  Amanda 
would  be  defeated.  From  that  moment  her  beauty  was  not 
more  powerful  in  stimulating  his  designs  than  his  desire  of  re- 
venge on  Lord  Mortimer.  He  saw  he  was  fondly  attached  to 
Amanda,  and  he  believed  his  proud  heart  would  feel  no  event 
so  afflictive  as  that  which  should  deprive  him  of  her. 

Lord  Mortimer  handed  Amanda  in  silence  to  the  carriage  ; 
he  wis  pressed  to  return  to  supper,  but  refused.  The  ladies 
found  the  marquis  and  Lord  Cherbury  together.  Amanda  re- 
tired to  her  chamber  immediately  after  supper ; the  presence  of 
Eelgrave  had  increased  the  dejection  which  she  hoped  the 
amusements  of  the  theatre  would  have  dissipated  ; she  now  in- 
deed longed  for  the  period  when  she  should  be  entitled  to  the 
protection  of  Lord  Mortimer ; when  she  should  no  longer  dread 
the  audacity  or  stratagems  of  Eelgrave.  Lord  Cherbury,  on 
her  retiring,  expressed  his  regret  at  her  coldness  to  Sir  Charles 
Eingley,  by  which  she  had  lost  a most  honorable  and  advan- 
tageous attachment. 

This  was  an  opportunity  not  to  be  neglected  by  the  mar- 
chioness, for  commencing  her  operations  against  Fitzalan.  A 
glance  to  Lady  Greystock  was  the  signal  to  begin. 

‘‘To  those,”  said  Lady  Greystock,  “who  are  ignorant  of 
Miss  Fitzalan’s  real  motives  for  refusing  Sir  Charles,  it  must  ap- 
pear, no  doubt,  extraordinary;  but  ambitious  people  are  not 
easily  satisfied  ; indeed,  I cannot  blame  her  so  much  for  enter- 
taining aspiring  notions  as  those  who  instilled  them  into  her 
mind.” 

Lord  Cherbury  stared,  and  requested  an  explanation  of  her 
words. 

“ Why,  I declare,  my  lord,”  cried  she,  “ I do  not  know  but 
that  it  will  be  more  friendly  to  explain  than  conceal  my  mean- 
ing. When  once  informed  of  the  young  lady’s  views,  your  lord- 
ship  may  be  able  to  convince  her  of  that  fallacy,  and  prevail 
on  her  not  to  lose  another  good  opportunity  of  settling  herself 
in  consequence  of  them  ; in  short,  my  lord,  Miss  Fitzalan, 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


257 


prompted  by  her  father,  has  cast  her  eyes  on  Lord  Mortimen 
Presuming  on  your  friendship,  he  thought  a union  between  them 
might  easily  be  accomplished.  I do  not  believe  Lord  Morti- 
mer, at  first,  gave  any  encouragement  to  their  designs ; 
but  when  the  girl  was  continually  thrown  in  his  way,  it  was 
impossible  not  to  notice  her  at  last.  I really  expressed  a 
thorough  disapprobation  to  her  coming  to  London,  knowing 
their  motives  for  desiring  the  excursion,  but  her  father  never 
ceased  persecuting  me  till  I consented  to  take  her  under 
my  protection.’’  ‘‘  Upon  my  word,’’  cried  the  marquis,  who 
was  not  of  the  ladies’  privy  council,  though  if  he  had  it  is 
j)robable  he  would  not  have  objected  to  their  schemes, 
Captain  Fitzalan  must  have  had  some  such  motive  as  this 
]^ady  Greystock  has  mentioned  for  sending  his  daughter  to 
J^ondon,  or  else  he  would  not  have  been  so  ridiculous  as 
to  put  himself  at  the  expense  of  fitting  her  out  for  company 
•ihe  has  no  right  to  enter.”  I never  thought,”  exclaimed 
Lord  Cherbury,  whose  mind  was  irritated  to  the  most  violent 
degree  of  resentment  against  his  injured  friend,  “ that  Captain 
Fitzalan  could  have  acted  with  such  duplicity.  He  knew  the 
views  I entertained  for  my  son,  and  there  is  a mean  treachery 
in  his  attempting  to  counteract  them.”  “ Nay,  my  lord,”  said 
Lady  Greystock,  ‘‘you  are  a father  yourself,  and  must  make 
allowances  for  the  anxiety  of  a parent  to  establish  a child.” 
“ No,  madam,”  he  replied ; “ I can  make  no  allowance  for  a 
» deviation  from  integrity,  or  for  a sacrifice  of  honor  and  grati- 
tude at  the  shrine  of  interest.  The  subject  has  discomposed 
\ne,  and  I. must  beg  to  be  excused  for  abruptly  retiring;  noth- 
ing, indeed,  I believe,  can  wound  one  so  severely  as  deceit, 
v/here  one  reposed  implicit  confidence.” 

The  ladies  were  enraptured  at  the  success  of  their  scheme. 
The  passion  of  Lord  Cherbury  could  scarcely  be  smothered  in 
their  presence.  On  the  head  of  Fitzalan  they  knew  it  would 
burst  with  full  violence.  They  did  not  mention  Belgrave  ; re^ 
lative  to  him  they  resolved  to  affect  profound  ignorance. 

The  passions  of  Lord  Cherbury  were  impetuous.  He  had, 
as  I have  already  hinted,  secret  motives  for  desiring  a connec- 
tion between  his  family  and  the  marquis’s  ; and  the  idea  of 
that  desire  being  defeated  drove  him  almost  to  distraction. 
He  knew  his  son’s  passions,  though  not  so  easily  irritated  as 
his  own  were,  when  once  irritated,  equally  violent.  To  remon 
strate  with  him  concerning  Miss  Fitzalan,  he  believed,  woulo. 
be  unavailing ; he  therefore  resolved,  if  possible,  to  have  her 
removed  out  of  his  way  ere  he  apprised  him  of  the  discovery 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


258 

he  had  made  of  his  attachment.  He  entertained  not  a doubt 
of  Lady  Greystock’s  veracity ; from  his  general  knowledge  of 
mankind,  he  believed  self  the  predominant  consideration  in 
every  breast  His  feelings  were  too  violent  not  to  seek  an  im- 
mediate vent,  and  ere  he  went  to  bed,  he  wrote  a bitter  and  re- 
proachful letter  to  Pltzalan,  which  concluded  with  an  entreaty, 
or  rather  a command,  to  send  without  delay  for  his  daughter. 
A dreadful  stroke  this  for  poor  Fitzalan. 

After  all  his  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care 
And  all  his  griefs,’^ 

He  hoped  he  had  at  last  found  a spot  where  his  latter  days 
might  close  in  tranquillity. 

The  innocent  Amanda  was  received  the  next  morning  with 
smiles  by  those  who  were  preparing  a plot  for  her  destruction. 

Whilst  at  breakfast,  a servant  informed  Lady  Greystock  a 
young  woman  wanted  to  speak  to  her.  “ Who  is  she  f ” asked 
her  ladyship  ; ‘‘did  she  not  send  up  her  name  ? ’’  “ No,  my 

lady ; but  she  said  she  had  particular  business  with  your  lady- 
ship.’’ 

The  marchioness  directed  she  might  be  shown  up  ; and  a 
girl  about  seventeen  was  accordingly  ushered  into  the  room. 
Her  figure  was  delicate,  and  her  face  interesting  not  only  from 
its  innocence,  but  the  strong  expression  of  melancholy  diffused 
over  it.  She  appeared  trembling  with  confusion  and  timidity, 
and  the  poverty  of  her  apparel  implied  the  source  of  her  dejec- 
tion. 

“ So,  child,”  said  Lady  Greystock,  after  surveying  her  frora 
head  to  foot,  “I  am  told  you  have  business  with  me.”  “ Yes, 
madam,”  replied  she,  in  an  accent  so  low  as  scarcely  to  be 
heard  ; “ my  father.  Captain  Rushbrook,  desired  me  to  deliver 
a letter  to  your  ladyship.” 

She  presented  it,  and  endeavored  to  screea  herself  from  the 
scrutinizing  and  contemptuous  glances  of  Lady  Euphrasia  by 
pulling  her  hat  over  her  face. 

“ I wonder,  child,”  said  Lady  Greystock,  as  she  opened  the 
letter,  “ what  your  father  can  write  to  me  about.  I don’t  sup- 
pose it  can  be  about  the  affair  he  mentioned  the  other  day. 
Why,  really,”  continued  she,  after  she  had  perused  it,  “ I believe 
he  takes  me  for  a fool  1 am  astonished,  after  his  insolent  con- 
duct, how  he  can  possibly  have  the  assurance  to  make  applica- 
tion to  me  for  relief.  No,  no,  child,  he  neglected  the  oppor- 
tunity he  had  of  securing  me  his  friend.  ’Twould  really  be  a 
sin  to  give  him  the  power  of  bringing  up  his  family  in  idleness. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


259 

Mo,  no,  child,  he  must  learii  you  and  the  other  little  dainty 
misses  he  has,  to  do  something  for  yourselves.’" 

The  poor  girl  blushed ; a tear  trembled  in  her  eye ; she 
tried  to  suppress  it,  but  it  forced  its  way,  and  dropped  into  her 
bosom.  Amanda,  inexpressibly  shocked,  could  support  the 
scene  no  longer.  She  retired  precipitately,  and  descended  to 
the  parlor.  Sympathy,  as  well  as  compassion,  made  her  feel 
for  this  daughter  of  affliction,  for  she  herself  knew  what  it  was 
to  feel  the  insolence  of  prosperity,  the  proud  man's  scorn, 
and  all  those  ills  which  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes.” 

In  a few  minutes  Miss  Rushbrook  quitted  the  drawing-room, 
and  stopped  in  the  hall  to  wipe  away  her  tears.  Amanda  had 
been  watching  for  her,  and  now  appeared.  She  started,  and 
was  hurrying  away,  when  Amanda  caught  her  hand,  and  leading 
her  softly  into  the  parlor,  endeavored,  with  angelic  sweetness, 
to  calm  her  emotion.  Surprised  at  this  unexpected  attention, 
and  overcome  by  her  feelings,  the  poor  girl  sunk  on  her  chair, 
and  dropping  her  head  on  Amanda’s  bosom,  wet  it  with  a 
shower  ► of  tears,  as  she  exclaimed:  “Alas!  my  unfortunate 
parents,  how  can  I return  to  behold  your  misery  ? The  grave 
is  the  only  refuge  for  you  and  your  wretched  children  ! ” “ You 

must  not  encourage  such  desponding  thoughts,”  said  Amanda. 
“ Providence,  all  bounteous  and  all  powerful,  is  able  in  a short 
time  to  change  the  gloomiest  scene  into  one  of  brightness.  Tell 
me,”  she  continued,  after  a pause,  “ where  do  you  reside  “ At 
Kensington.”  “ Kensington  ! ” repeated  Amanda.  “ Surely, 
in  your  present  situation,  you  are  unable  to  take  such  a walk.” 
“ I must  attempt  it,  however,”  replied  Miss  Rushbrook. 

Amanda  walked  from  her  to  the  window,  revolving  a scheme 
which  had  just  darted  into  her  mind.  “ If  you  know  any 
house,”  said  she,  “ where  you  could  stay  for  a short  time,  1 
would  call  on  you  in  a carriage,  and  leave  you  at  home.” 

This  offer  was  truly  pleasing  to  the  poor  weak  trembling 
girl,  but  she  modestly  declined  it,  from  the  fear  of  giving  trou- 
ble. Amanda  besought  her  not  to  w^aste  time  in  such  unneces- 
sary scruples,  but  to  give  her  the  desired  information.  She 
accordingly  informed  her  there  was  a haberdasher’s  in  Bond 
Street,  mentioning  the  name,  where  she  could  stay  till  called  for. 

This  point  settled,  Amanda,  fearful  of  being  surprised,  con- 
ducted her  softly  to  the  hall-door,  and  immediately  returned 
to  the  drawing-room,  where  she  found  Lady  Euphrasia  jusl 
beginning  Rushbrook’s  letter,  for  her  mother’s  amusement. 
Its  style  evidently  denoted  the  painful  conflicts  there  were 
between  pride  and  distress,  ere  the  former  could  be  sufficiently 


26o  tite  children  of  the  abbey. 

subdued,  to  allow  an  application  for  relief  to  the  person  who 
occasioned  the  latter.  The  sight  of  a tender  and  beloved 
wife,  languishing  in  the  arms  of  sickness,  and  surrounded  by  a 
family,  under  the  pressure  of  the  severest  want,  had  forced  him 
to  a step,  which,  on  his  own  account,  no  necessity  could  have 
compelled  him  to  take.  He  and  his  family,  he  said,  had  drank 
of  the  cup  of  misery  to  the  very  dregs.  He  waived  the  claims 
of  justice ; he  only  asserted  those  of  humanity,  in  his  present 
application  to  her  ladyship  ; and  these,  he  flattered  himself, 
she  would  allow.  He  had  sent  a young  petitioner  in  his  behalf, 
whose  tearful  eye,  whose  faded  cheek,  were  sad  evidences  of 
the  misery  he  described. 

The  marchioness  declared  she  was  astonished  at  his  inso- 
lence in  making  such  an  application,  and  Lady  Euphrasia  pro- 
tested the  letter  was  the  most  ridiculous  stuff  she  had  ever  read. 

Amanda,  in  this,  as  well  as  in  many  other  instances,  differed 
from  her  ladyship  ; but  her  opinion,  like  a little  project  she 
had  in  view  about  the  Rushbrooks,  was  carefully  concealed. 

Out  of  the  allowance  her  father  made  her  for  clothes  and 
other  expenses  about  ten  guineas  remained,  which  she  had 
intended  laying  , out  in  the  purchase  of  some  ornaments  for 
her  ajDpearance  at  a ball,  to  be  given  in  the  course  of  the  en- 
suing week  by  the  Duchess  of  B , and,  for  which,  at  the 

time  of  invitation.  Lord  Mortimer  had  engaged  her  for  his 
partner.  To  give  up  going  to  this  ball,  to  consecrate  to  charity 
the  money  devoted  to  vanity,  was  her  project ; and  most  for- 
tunate did  she  deem  the  application  of  Rushbrook,  ere  her 
purchase  was  made,  and  she  consequently  prevented  from 
giving  her  mite.  Her  soul  revolted  from  the  inhumanity  of 
the  marchioness,  her  daughter,  and  Lady  Greystock.  Exempt 
from  the  calamities  of  want  themselves,  they  forgot  the  pity 
due  to  those  calamities  in  others.  If  this  coldness,  this  obdu- 
racy, she  cried,  within  herself,  is  the  effect  of  prosperity ; if 
thus  it  closes  the  avenues  of  benevolence  and  compassion,  oh ! 
never  may  the  dangerous  visitor  approach  me — for  ill  should  I 
think  the  glow  of  compassion  and  sensibility  exchanged  for  aii 
its  gaudy  pleasures. 

The  ladies  had  mentioned  their  intention  of  going  to  an 
auction,  where,  to  use  Lady  Euphrasia’s  phrase,  they  expected 
to  see  all  the  world.’^  Amanda  excused  herself  from  being  of 
the  party,  saying,  ^‘she  wanted  to  make  some  purchases  in  the 
city.’’  Her  excuse  was  readily  admitted,  and  when  they  re- 
tired to  their  respective  toilets,  she  sent  for  a coach,  and  being 
prepared  against  it  come,  immediately  stepped  into  it,  and  was 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY,  261 

driven  to  Bond  Street,  where  she  found  Miss  Rushbrook,  with 
trembling  anxiety,  waiting  her  arrival. 

On  their  way  to  Kensington,  the  tenderness  of  Amanda  at 
once  conciliated  the  affection,  and  gained  the  entire  confidence 
of  her  young  companion.  She  related  the  little  history  of  her 
parents’  sorrows.  Her  lather,  on  returning  from  America, 
with  his  wife  and  six  children,  had  been  advised  by  Mr.  Heath- 
field,  the  friend  who  had  effected  a reconciliation  between  him 
and  his  uncle,  to  commence  a suit  against  Lady  Greystock,  on 
the  presumption  that  the  will,  by  which  she  enjoyed  Sir  Geoffry’s 
fortune,  was  illegally  executed.  He  offered  him  his  purse  to 
carry  on  the  suit,  and  his  house  for  an  habitation.  Rushbrook 
gratefully  and  gladly  accepted  both  offers,  and  having  disposed 
of  his  commission,  to  discharge  some  present  demands  against 
him,  he  and  his  family  took  up  their  residence  under  Mr. 
Heathfield's  hospitable  roof.  In  the  midst  of  the  felicity 
enjoyed  beneath  it , in  the  midst  of  the  hopes  their  own  san- 
guine tempers,  and  the  flattering  suggestions  of  the  lawyers 
had  excited,  a violent  fever  carried  off  their  benevolent  friend, 
ere  a will  was  executed,  in  which  he  had  promised  largely  to 
consider  Rushbrook.  His  heir,  narrow  and  illiberal,  had  long 
feared  that  his  interest  would  be  hurt  by  the  affection  he  en- 
tertained for  Rushbrook  ; and,  as  if  in  revenge  for  the  pain 
this  fear  had  given,  the  moment  he  had  the  power  he  showed 
his  malignant  disposition,  sold  all  the  furniture  of  the  house 
at  Kensington,  and  as  a great  favor  told  Rushbrook,  he  might 
continue  in  it  till  the  expiration  of  the  half  year,  when  it  was 
to  be  given  up  to  the  landlord.  The  lawyers  understanding 
the  state  of  his  finances,  soon  informed  him  he  could  no  longer 
expect  their  assistance.  Thus,  almost  in  one  moment,  did  all 
his  pleasing  prospects  vanish,  and, 

“ Like  the  baseless  fabric  of  a vision, 

Left  not  a rack  behind.” 

As  a duty  he  owed  his  family,  he  tried  whether  Lady  Grey- 
stock  would  make  a compromise  between  justice  and  avarice, 
and  afford  him  some  means  of  support.  Her  insolence  and 
inhumanity  shocked  him  to  the  soul  ; and  as  he  left  her  pres- 
ence, he  resolved  never  to  enter  it  again,  or  to  apply  to  her. 
This  last  resolution,  however,  only  continued  till  the  distresses 
of  the  family  grew  so  great  as  to  threaten  their  existence,  par- 
ticularly that  of  his  wife,  who,  overpowered  by  grief,  had  sunk 
into  a languishing  illness,  which  every  day  increased  for  want 
of  proper  assistance. 


262  the  children  of  the  abbey. 

In  hopes  of  procuring  her  some,  he  was  tempted  again  to 
apply  to  Lady  Greystock.  The  youth  and  innocence  of  his 
daughter  would,  he  thought,  if  anything  could  do  it,  soften  her 
flinty  heart.  Besides,  he  believed  that  pleasure,  at  finding  his 
pretensions  to  the  fortune  entirely  withdrawn,  would  influence 
her  to  administer  from  it  to  his  wants. 

We  have,’'  said  Miss  Rushbrook,  as  she  concluded  her 
simple  narration,  “ tried,  and  been  disappointed  in  our  last 
resource.  What  will  become  of  us,  I know  not ; we  have  long 
been  strangers  to  the  comforts,  but  even  the  necessaries  of 
life  we  cannot  now  procure.”  Comfort,”  cried  Amanda, 
‘‘  often  arrives  when  least  expected.  To  despair,  is  to  doubt 
the  goodness  of  a Being  who  has  promised  to  protect  all  his 
creatures.” 

The  carriage  had  now  reached  Kensington,  and  within  a 
few  yards  of  Rushbrook’s  habitation.  Amcnda  stopped  it. 
She  took  Miss  Rushbrook’s  hand,  and  as  she  slipped  a ten- 
pound  note  into  it,  exclaimed : I trust  the  period  is  not  far 
distant,  when  the  friendship  we  have  conceived  for  each  other 
may  be  cultivated  under  more  fortunate  auspices.” 

Miss  Rushbrook  opened  the  folded  paper.  She  started, 
and  ‘‘  the  hectic  of  a moment  flushed  her  cheek.”  Oh  ! 
madam  ! ” she  cried,  your  goodness — ” tears  impeded  her 
further  utterance. 

Do  not  distress  me,”  said  Amanda,  again  taking  her 
hand,  “ by  mentioning  such  a trifle  ; was  my  ability  equal  to 
my  inclination,  I should  blush  to  offer  it  to  your  acceptance. 
As  it  is,  consider  it  as  but  the  foretaste  of  the  bounty  which 
heaven  has,  I doubt  not,  in  store  for  you.” 

She  then  desired  the  door  to  be  opened,  and  told  her  com- 
panion she  would  no  longer  detain  her.  Miss  Rushbrook 
affectionately  kissed  her  hand,  and  exclaimed,  You  look  like 
an  angel,  and  your  goodness  is  correspondent  to  your  looks. 
I will  not,  madam,  refuse  your  bounty.  I accept  it  with  grati- 
tude, for  those  dearer  to  me  than  myself.  But  ah  ! may  I not 
indulge  a hope  of  seeing  you  again.  You  are  so  kind,  so 
gentle,  madam,  that  every  care  is  lulled  into  forgetfulness 
whilst  conversing  with  you.” 

“ I shall  certainly  see  you  again  as  soon  as  possible,”  re- 
plied Amanda. 

Miss  Rushbrook  then  quitted  the  carriage,  which  Amanda 
ordered  back  to  town,  and  bid  the  coachman  drive  as  fast  as 
possible.  They  had  not  proceeded  far,  when  the  traces  sud- 
denly gave  way,  and  the  man  was  obliged  to  dismount,  and 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY,  263 

procure  assistance  from  a public-house  on  the  road,  in  repair- 
ing them.  This  occasioned  a delay,  which  greatly  distressed 
Amanda.  She  wished  to  get  home  before  the  ladies,  lest,  if 
this  was  not  the  cas^,  her  long  absence  should  make  Lady 
Greystock,  who  was  remarkably  inquisitive,  inquire  the  reason 
of  it ; and  to  tell  her  she  had  a strong  objection,  convinced, 
as  she  was,  that  her  ladyship’s  knowing  she  relieved  objects  so 
extremely  disagreeable  to  her,  would  occasion  a quarrel  between 
them,  which  would  either  render  a longer  residence  together 
impossible  or  highly  disagreeable.  And  to  leave  London  at 
the  present  crisis,  when  everything  relative  to  Lord  Mortimer 
was  drawing  to  a conclusion,  was  not  to  be  thought  of  without 
the  greatest  pain. 

At  length  the  coachman  remounted  his  box,  and  the  velo- 
city with  which  he  drove,  flattered  her  with  the  hope  of  reach- 
ing home  as  soon  as  she  wished.  Tranquillized  by  this  hope, 
she  again  indulged  her  imagination  with  ideas  of  the  comfort 
her  little  bounty  had  probably  given  Rushbrook  and  his  de- 
jected tamily.  So  sweet  to  her  soul  was  the  secret  approbation 
which  crowned  her  charity  ; so  preferable  to  any  pleasure  she 
could  have  experienced  at  a ball,  that  even  the  disappointment 
she  believed  Lord  Mortimer  would  feel  from  her  declining  it, 
was  overlooked  in  the  satisfaction  she  felt  from  the  action  she 
had  performed.  She  was  convinced  he  would  inquire  her  reason 
for  not  going,  which  she  determined  at  present  to  conceal.  It 
would  appear  like  ostentation,  she  thought,  to  say  that  the 
money  requisite  for  her  appearance  at  the  ball  was  expended 
in  charity,  and  perhaps  excite  his  generosity  in  a manner  which 
delicacy  at  present  forbade  her  allowing. 

She  asked  the  footman  who  handed  her  from  the  carriage 
whether  the  ladies  were  returned ; and  on  being  answered  in 
the  affirmative,  inquired  the  hour,  and  learned  it  was  just  dinner 
time.  Flurried  by  this  intelligence  she  hastened  to  her  cham- 
ber, followed  by  the  maid  appointed  to  attend  her,  who  said 
Lady  Greystock  had  inquired  for  her  as  soon  as  she  came  home. 
Amanda  dressed  herself  with  unusual  expedition,  and  repaired 
to  the  drawing-room,  where,  in  addition  to  the  family  party,  she 
found  Lord  Mortimer,  Freelove,  Miss  Malcolm,  and  some  other 
ladies  and  gentlemen  assembled. 

‘‘  Bless  me,  child,”  said  Lady  Greystock  the  moment  she 
entered  the  room,  ‘‘  where  have  you  been  the  whole  day  ? ” ‘‘I 
declare.  Miss  Fitzallan,”  exclaimed  Lady  Euphrasia,  I be' 
lieve  you  stole  a march  somewhere  upon  us  this  morning.” 
“ Well,”  cried  Miss  Malcolm,  laughing,  your  ladyship  must 


264  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

know  that  people  generally  have  some  important  reason  for 
stolen  marches  which  they  do  not  choose  to  divulge.” 

Amanda  treated  this  malicious  insinuation  with  the  silent 
contempt  it  merited  ; and  on  Lady  Greystock’s  again  asking 
her  where  she  had  been,  said,  in  a low  hesitating  voice,  in 
the  city.” 

In  the  city  ! ” repeated  Lord  Mortimer. 

This  sudden  exclamation  startled  her.  She  looked  at  him, 
and  perceived  him  regarding  her  with  the  most  scrutinizing 
earnestness.  She  blushed  deeply,  as  if  detected  in  a falsehood, 
and  immediately  bent  her  eyes  to  the  ground. 

The  conversation  now  changed,  but  it  was  sometime  ere 
Amanda’s  confusion  subsided. 

Lord  Mortimer,  indeed,  had  a rea’son  for  his  exclamation 
she  little  thought  of.  He  had  met  the  marchioness  and  her 
companions,  by  appointment,  at  the  auction,  but  soon  grew 
weary  of  his  situation,  which  the  presence  of  Amanda  could 
alone  have  rendered  tolerable.  He  pleaded  business  as  an  ex- 
cuse for  withdrawing,  and  hurrying  home,  ordered  his  phaeton, 
and  proceeded  towards  Kensington.  As  he  passed  the  coach 
in  which  Amanda  sat,  at  the  time  the  traces  were  mending,  he 
carelessly  looked  into  it,  and  directly  recognized  her.  Lady 
Euphrasia  had  informed  him  she  excused  herself  from  their  party 
on  account  of  some  business  in  the  city.  He  never  heard  of 
her  having  any  acquaintance  in  or  about  Kensington,  and  was 
at  once  alarmed  and  surprised  by  discovering  her.  He  drove 
to  some  distance  from  the  carriage,  and  as  soon  as  it  began  to 
move,  pursued  it  with  equal  velocity  till  it  reached  town,  and 
then  giving  his  phaeton  in  charge  to  the  servant,  followed  it  on 
foot,  till  he  saw  Amanda  alight  from  it  at  the  Marquis  of  Ros- 
lin’s.  Amanda  had  escaped  seeing  his  lordship  by  a profound 
meditation  in  which  she  was  engaged  at  the  moment,  as  she 
pensively  leaned  against  the  side  of  the  coach.  Lord  Mortimer 
walked  back  with  increased  disorder  to  meet  his  phaeton.  As 
he  approached  it,  he  saw  Colonel  Belgrave  by  it,  on  horseback, 
admiring  the  horses,  which  were  remarkably  fine,  and  asking  to 
whom  they  belonged.  His  acquaintance  with  the  colonel  had 
hitherto  never  exceeded  more  than  a passing  bow.  Now 
prompted  by  an  irresistible  impulse,  he  saluted  him  familiarly  j 
inquired  “ whether  he  had  had  a pleasant  ride  that  morning, 
and  how  far  he  had  been.”  farther  than  Kensington,” 

replied  the  colonel. 

This  answer  was  confirmation  strong  to  all  the  fears  of 
Lord  Mortimer.  He  turned  pale;  dropped  the  reins  which  he 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


265 

had  taken,  with  an  intention  of  remounting,  and,  without  even 
noticing  the  colonel,  flew  from  the  place,  and  arrived  at  home 
almost  in  a state  of  distraction.  He  was  engaged  to  dine  at  the 
Marquis’s,  but  in  the  first  violence  of  his  feelings,  resolved  on 
sending  an  apology.  Ere  the  servant,  however,  summoned  fey: 
that  purpose  had  entered  his  apartment,  he  changed  his  resolu- 
tion. “ I will  go,”  said  he  : “ though  appearances  are  against 
her,  she  ma}',  perhaps,”  (and  he  tried  to  derive  some  comfort 
from  the  idea,)  ‘‘be  able  satisfactorily  to  account  for  hei  being 
at  Kensington.” 

Tortured  by  conflicting  passions,  alternately  hoping  and 
doubting,  he  arrived  at  Portman  Square. 

Lady  Greystock  and  Lady  Euphrasia  dwelt  with  wonder  on 
the  length  of  Amanda’s  morning  excursion.  When  she  entered 
the  room,  he  thought  she  appeared  embarrassed  ; and  that,  on 
Lady  Greystock’s  addressing  her,  this  embarrassment  increased. 
But  when  she  said  she  had  l3een  in  the  city,  her  duplicity,  as  he 
termed  it,  appeared  so  monstrous  to  him,  that  he  could  not  for- 
bear an  involuntary  repetition  of  her  words.  So  great,  indeed, 
was  the  indignation  it  excited  in  his  breast,  that  he  could 
scarcely  forbear  reproaching  her  as  the  djstroyerof  his  and  her 
own  felicity.  Her  blush  appeared  to  him,*  not  the  ingenuous 
coloring  of  innocence,  but  the  glow  of  shame  and  guilt.  It  was 
evident  to  him  that  she  had  seen  Belgrave  that  morning ; that 
he  was  the  occasion  of  all  the  mystery  which  had  appeared  in 
her  conduct,  and  that  it  was  the  knowledge  of  the  improper  in- 
fluence he  had  over  her  heart  which  made  Sir  Charles  Bingley 
so  suddenly  resign  her. 

“ Gracious  Heaven  ! ” said  he  to  himself,  “ who,  that  looked 
upon  Amanda,  could  ever  suppose  duplicity  harbored  in  her 
breast?  Yet  that  too  surely  it  is,  I have  every  reason  to  sup- 
pose. Yet  a little  longer  I will  bear  a torturing  state  of  sus- 
pense, nor  reveal  my  doubts  till  thoroughly  convinced  they  are 
well  founded.” 

He  sat  opposite  to  her  at  dinner,  and  his  eyes  were  directed 
towards  her  with  that  tender  sadness  which  we  feel  on  viewing 
a beloved  object  we  know  ourselves  on  the  point  of  losing  for- 
ever. 

His  melancholy  was  quickly  perceived  by  the  penetrating 
marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia.  They  saw,  with  delight, 
that  the  poison  of  suspicion,  infused  into  his  mind,  was  already 
beginning  to  operate.  They  anticipated  the  success  of  all 
their  schemes.  Their  spirits  grew  uncommonly  elevated  ; and 
Lady  Euphrasia  determined,  whenever  she  had  the  power,  to 


266 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


revenge,  on  the  susceptible  nature  of  Mortimer,  all  the  uneasi- 
ness he  had  made  her  suffer,  and  to  add,  as  far  as  malice  could 
add  to  it,  to  the  misery  about’  to  be  the  lot  of  Amanda. 

The  dejection  of  Lord  Mortimer  Avas  also  observed  by 
Amanda.  It  excited  her  fears  and  affected  her  sensibility. 
She  dreaded  that  his  aunt  had  refused  complying  with  his  re- 
quest  relative  to  her  interference  with  his  father,  or  that  the 
earl  had  been  urging  him  to  an  immediate  union  with  Laciy 
Euphrasia.  Perhaps  he  now  wavered  between  love  and  duty. 
The  thought  struck  a cold  damp  upon  her  heart.  Yet  no,  cried 
she,  it  cannot  be  ; if  inclined  to  change.  Lord  Mortimer  would 
at  once  have  informed  rne. 

In  the  evening  there  was  a large  addition  to  the  party  ; but 
Lord  Mortimer  sat  pensively  apart  from  the  company.  Amanda, 
by  chance,  procured  a seat  next  his.  His  paleness  alarmed 
her,  and  she  could  not  forbear  hinting  her  fears  that  he  was  ill. 

‘‘  I am  ill,  indeed,’’  sighed  he,  heavily.  He  looked  at  her 
as  he  spoke,  and  beheld  her  regarding  him  with  the  most  exqui- 
site tenderness.  But  the  period  was  past  for  receiving  delight 
from  such  an  appearance  of  affection  : an  affection,  he  had  rea- 
son to  believe  was  never  more  than  feigned  for  him  ; and,  also, 
from  his  emotions  when  with  her,  that  he  should  never  cease 
regretting  the  deception.  His  passions,  exhausted  by  their 
own  violence,  had  sunk  into  a calm,  and  sadness  was  the  pre- 
dominant feeling  of  his  soul.  Though  he  so  bitterly  lamented, 
he  could  not,  at  the  moment,  have  reproached  her  perfidy.  He 
gazed  on  her  with  mournful  tenderness,  and  to  the  involuntary 
expression  of  regret,  which  dropped  from  her  on  hearing  he 
was  ill,  only  replied,  by  saying,  “ Ah  Amanda,  the  man  that 
really  excites  your  tenderness  must  be  happy.” 

Amanda,  unconscious  that  any  sinister  meaning  lurked 
beneath  these  words,  considered  them  as  an  acknowledgment 
of  the  happiness  he  himself  experienced  from  being  convinced 
of  her  regard,  and  her  heart  swelled  with  pleasure  at  the  idea. 

Any  further  conversation  between  them  was  interrupted  by 
Miss- Malcolm,  who,  in  a laughing  manner,  seated  herself  by 
Lor^  Mortimer,  to  rally  him,  as  she  said,  into  good  spirits. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


2&^ 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 


“ But  yet  I f^y, 

If  imputation  and  strong  ci'  ‘.umstances, 

Which  lead  directly  to  the  '’Dor  of  truth. 

Will  give  you  satisfaction,  Ju  may  have  it.” 

Shakspeark. 


From  that  evening,  to  the  day  destined  for  the  ball,  noth- 
ng  material  happened.  On  the  morning  of  that  day,  as 
A.manda  was  sitting  in  the  drawing-room  with  the  ladies,  Lord 
Mortimer  entered.  Lady  Euphrasia  could  talk  of  nothing  else 
Dut  the  approaching  entertainment,  which,  she  said,  was  ex- 
pected to  be  the  most  brilliant  thing  that  had  been  given  that 
ivinter. 

I hope  your  ladyship,’’  said  Amanda,  who  had  not  yet 
declared  her  intention  of  staying  at  home,  will  be  able  to- 
morrow to  give  me  a good  description  of  it.”  “ Why,  I sup- 
pose,” cried  Lady  Ev^phrasia,  ^‘you  do  not  intend  going  with- 
out being  able  to  see  ind  hear  yourself  ? ” “ Certainly,”  replied 

Amanda,  I shoul'  , not,  but  I do  not  intend  going.”  “ Not 
going  to  the  ba‘ . to-night?”  exclaimed  Lady  Euphrasia. 
‘‘  Bless  me  child  said  Lady  Greystock,  “ what  whim  has 
entered  your  he  I to  prevent  your  going  ? ” “ Dear  Lady 

Greystock,”  said  i,ady  Euphrasia,  in  a tone  of  unusual  good- 
humor,  internaky  delighted  at  Amanda’s  resolution,  “ don’t 
tease  Miss  Fitzalan  with  questions.”  ‘‘  And  you  really  do  not 
go  ? ” exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer,  in  an  accent  expressive  of 
surprise  and  disappointment.  “ I really  do  not,  my  lord.” 

I declare,”  said  the  marchioness,  even  more  delighted  than 
her  daughter  at  Amanda’s  resolution,  as  it  favored  a scheme 
she  had  long  been  projecting,  “ I wish  Euphrasia  was  as  in- 
different about  amusement  as  Miss  Fitzalan  : here  she  has 
been  complaining  of  indisposition  the  whole  morning,  yet  I 
cannot  prevail  on  her  to  give  up  the  ball.” 

Lady  Euphrasia,  who  never  felt  in  better  health  and  spirits, 
would  have  contradicted  the  marchioness,  had  not  an  expres- 
sive glance  assured  her  there  was  an  important  motive  for  this 
assertion. 

May  we  not  hope.  Miss  Fitzalan,”  said  Lord  Mortimer, 
“ that  a resolution  so  suddenly  adopted  as  yours  may  be  as 


263 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY, 


suddenly  changed  ? ‘‘No,  indeed,  my  lord,  nor  is  it  so  sud 

denly  formed  as  you  seem  to  suppose.’’ 

Lord  Mortimer  shuddered  as  he  endeavored  to  account  for 
it  in  his  own  mind  ; his  agony  became  almost  insupportable  ; 
he  arose  and  walked  to  the  window  where  she  sat. 

“ Amanda,”  said  he,  in  a low  voice,  “ I fear  you  forget  your 
engagement  to  me.” 

Amanda,  supposing  this  alluded  to  her  engagement  for  the 
ball,  replied,  “ she  had  not  forgotten  it.”  “ For  your  inability 
or  disinclination  to  fulfil  it,  then,”  said  he,  “ will  you  not 
account.^”  “Most  willingly,  my  lord.”  “When?”  asked 
Lord  Mortimer,  impatiently,  for,  unable  longer  to  support  his 
torturing  suspense,  he  determined,  contrary  to  his  first  inten- 
tion, to  come  to  an  immediate  explanation  relative  to  Belgrave. 
“To-morrow,  my  lord,”  replied  Amanda,  “since  you  desire  it, 
I will  account  for  not  keeping  my  engagement,  and  I trust,”  a 
ftiodest  blush  mantling  her  chi^eks  as  she  spoke,  “that  your 
lordship  will  not  disapprove  of  my  reasons  for  declining  it.” 

The  peculiar  earnestness  of  his  words.  Lord  Mortimer 
imagined,  had  conveyed  their  real  meaning  to  Amanda. 

“Till  to-morrow,  then,”  sighed  he,  heavily,  “I  must  bear 
disquietude.” 

His  regret,  Amanda  supposed,  proceeded  from  disappoint- 
ment at  not  having  her  company  at  the  ball : she  was  flattered 
by  it,  and  pleased  at  the  idea  of  telling  him  her  real  motive  for 
not  going,  certain  it  would  meet  his  approbation,  and  open 
another  source  of  benevolence  to  poor  Rushbrook. 

In  the  evening,  at  Lady  Euphrasia’s  particular  request,  she 
attended  at  her  toilet,  and  assisted  in  ornamenting  her  lady- 
ship. At  ten  she  saw  the  party  depart,  without  the  smallest 
regret  for  not  accompanying  them  : happy  in  self-approbation, 
a delightful  calm  was  diffused  over  her  mind  : a treacherous 
calm,  indeed,  which,  lulling  her  senses  into  security,  made  the 
approaching  storm  burst  with  redoubled  violence  on  her  head  j 
it  was  such  a calm  as  Shakspeare  beautifully  describes  : — 

“ We  often  see  against  some  storm 
A silence  in  the  heavens  ; the  rack  stand  still, 

The  bold  winds  speechless,  and  the  orb  below 
As  hush  as  death.” 


She  continued  in  Lady  Euphrasia’s  dfessing-room,  and  took 
up  the  beautiful  and  affecting  story  of  Paul  and  Mary,  to  amuse 
herself.  Her  whole  attention  was  soon  engrossed  by  it ; and, 
with  the  unfortunate  Paul,  she  was  shedding  a deluge  of  tears 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  269 

«ver  the  fate  of  his  lovely  Mary,  vdien  a sudden  noise  made, 
her  hastily  turn  her  head,  and  with  equal  horror  and  surprise, 
she  beheld  Colonel  Belgrave  coming  forward.  She  started  up, 
and  was  springing  to  the  door,  when,  rushing  between  her  and 
it,  he  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  forcing  her  back  to  the  sofa, 
rudely  stopped  her  mouth. 

‘‘Neither  cries  or  struggles,  Amanda,’’  said  he,  “will  be 
availing ; without  the  assistance  of  a friend,  you  may  be  con- 
vinced, I could  not  have  entered  this  house,  and  the  same 
friend  will,  you  may  depend  on  it,  take  care  that  our  tete-a-tete 
is  not  interrupted.’^ 

Amanda  shuddered  at  the  idea  of  treachery;  and  being 
convinced,  from  what  he  said,  she  could  not  expect  assistance, 
endeavored  to  recover  her  fainting  spirits,  and  exert  all  her 
resolution. 

“Your  scheme.  Colonel  Belgrave,”  said  she,  “is  equally 
vile  and  futile.  Though  treacfcry  may  have  brought  you 
hither,  you  must  be  convinced  that,  under  the  Marquis  of  Ros- 
lin’s  roof,  who,  by  relationship,  as  well  as  hospitality,  is  bound 
to  protect  me,  you  dare  not,  with  impunity,  offer  me  any  insult. 
The  marquis  will  be  at  home  immediately ; if,  therefore,  you 
wish  to  preserve  the  semblance  of  honor,  retire  without  further 
delay.”  “Not  to  retire  so  easily/’  exclaimed  Belgrave,  “did  I 
take  such  pains,  or  watch  so  anxiously  for  this  interview.  Fear 
not  any  insult ; but,  till  I have  revealed  the  purpose  of  my 
soul,  I will  not  be  forced  from  you.  My  love,  or  rather  adora- 
tion, has  known  no  abatement  by  your  long  concealment ; and 
now  that  chance  has  so  happily  thrown  you  in  my  way,  I will 
not  neglect  using  any  opportunity  it  may  offer.”  “ Gracious 
heaven  1 ” said  Amanda,  while  her  eyes  flashed  with  indigna- 
tion, “ how  can  you  have  the  effrontery  to  avow  your  insolent 
intentions — intentions  which  long  since  you  must  have  known 
would  ever  prove  abortive  ? ” “ And  why,  my  Amanda,”  said 

he,  again  attempting  to  strain  her  to  his  breast,  while  she 
shrunk  from  his  grasp,  “ why  should  they  prove  abortive  ? why 
should  you  be  obstinate  in  refusing  wealth,  happiness,  the  sin- 
cere, the  ardent  affection  of  a man,  who,  in  promoting  your 
felicity,  would  constitute  his  own  ? My  life,  my  fortune,  would 
be  at  your  command ; my  eternal  gratitude  would  be  yours  for 
any  trifling  sacrifice  the  world  might  think  you  made  me. 
Hesitate  no  longer  about  raising  yourself  to  affluence,  which, 
to  a benevolent  spirit  like  yours,  must  be  so  peculiarly  pleas- 
ing. Hesitate  not  to  secure  independence  to  your  father,  pro- 
motion to  your  brother ; and,  be  assured,  if  the  connection  I 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


27® 

formed  in  an  ill-fated  hour,  deceived  by  a specious  appearance 
of  perfection,  should  ever  be  dissolved,  my  hand,  like  my  heart, 
shall  be  yours.’’  Monster  ! ” exclaimed  Amanda,  beholding 
him  with  horror,  “ your  hand,  was  it  at  yjur  disposal,  like  your 
other  offers,  I should  spurn  with  cont^r  pt.  Cease  to  torment 
me,”  she  continued,  ‘Mest,  in  my  own  defence,  I call  upon 
those  who  have  power,  as  well  as  inclination,  to  chastise  your 
insolence.  Let  this  consideration,  joined  to  the  certainty  that 
your  pursuit  must  ever  prove  unavailing,  influence  your  future 
actions ; for,  be  assured,  you  are  in  every  respect  an  object  of 
abhorrence  to  my  soul.” 

As  she  spoke,  exerting  all  her  strength,  she  burst  from  him, 
and  attempted  to  gain  the  door.  He  flung  himself  between 
her  and  it,  his  face  inflamed  with  passion,  and  darting  the 
most  malignant  glances  at  her, 

Terrified  by  his  looks,  Amanda  tried  to  avoid  him  ; and 
when  he  caught  her  again  in  his  arms,  she  screamed  aloud.  No 
one  appeared  ; her  terror  increased. 

“ Oh,  Belgrave  ! ” cried  she,  trembling,  “ if  you  have  one 
principle  of  honor,  one  feeling  of  humanity  remaining,  retire, 
I will  pardon  and  conceal  what  is  past,  if  you  comply  with  my 
request.”  “I  distress  you,  Amanda,”  said  he,  assuming  a 
softened  accent,  and  it  wounds  me  to  the  soul  to  do  so, 
though  you,  cruel  and  inexorable,  care  not  what  pain  you 
occasion  me.  Hear  me  calmly,  and  be  assured  I shall  attempt 
no  action  which  can  offend  you.” 

He  led  her  again  to  the  sofa,  and  thus  continued  : — 

Misled  by  false  views,  you  shun  and  detest  the  only  man 
who  has  had  sufficient  sincerity  to  declare  openly  his  inten- 
tions ; inexperience  and  credulity  have  already  made  you  a 
dupe  to  artifice.  You  imagined  Sir  Charles  Bingley  was  a fer- 
vent admirer  of  yours,  when,  be  assured,  in  following  you  he 
only  obeyed  the  dictates  of  an  egregious  vanity,  which  flattered 
him  with  the  hope  of  gaining  your  regard,  and  being  distin- 
guished by  it»  Nothing  was  farther  from  his  thoughts,  as  he 
himself  confessed  to  me,  than  seiiously  paying  his  addresses  to 
you  j and  had  you  appeared  willing,  at  last,  to  accept  them,  be 
assured  he  would  soon  have  contrived  some  scheme  to  disen- 
gage himself  from  you.  The  attentions  of  Lord  Mortimer  are 
prompted  by  a motive  much  more  dangerous  than  that  which 
instigated  Sir  Charles.  He  really  admires  you,  and  would  have 
you  believe  his  views  are  honorable  ; but  beware  of  his  dupli- 
city. He  seeks  to  take  advantage  of  the  too  great  confidence 
you  repose  in  him.  His  purpose  once  accomplished,  he  would 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


271 


sacrifice  you  to  Lady  Euphrasia  ; and  I know  enough  of  her 
malevolent  disposition  to  be  convinced  she  would  enjoy  her 
triumph  over  so  lovely  a victim.  Ah,  my  dear  Amanda,  even 
beauty  and  elegance  like  yours  would  not,  on  the  generality  of 
mankind,  have  power  to  make  them  forego  the  advantages  an- 
nexed to  wealth — on  Lord  Mortimer,  particularly,  they  would 
fail  of  that  effect.  His  ambition  and  avarice  are  equal  to  his 
father’s  ; and  though  his  heart  and  soul,  I am  confident,  revolt 
from  the  mind  and  person  of  Lady  Euphrasia,  he  will  unite 
himself  to  her,  for  the  sake  of  possessing  her  fortune,  and  thus 
increasing  his  own  power  of  procuring  the  gratifications  he  de- 
lights in.  As  my  situation  is  known,  I cannot  be  accused  of 
deception,  and  whatever  I promise,  will  be  strictly  fulfilled. 
Deliberate  therefore  no  longer,  my  Amanda,  on  the  course  you 
shall  pursue.”  “No,”  cried  she,  “I  shall,  indeed,  no  longer 
deliberate  about  it.” 

As  she  spoke  she  started  from  her  seat.  Belgrave  again 
seized  her  hand.  At  this  moment  a knocking  was  heard  at 
the  hall  door,  which  echoed  through  the  house.  Amanda  trem- 
bled, and  Belgrave  paused  in  a speech  he  had  begun.  She 
supposed  the  marquis  had  returned.  It  was  improbable  he 
would  come  to  that  room  ; and  even  if  he  did,  from  his  dis- 
trustful and  malignant  temper,  she  knew  not  whether  she 
should  have  reason  to  rejoice  at  or  regret  his  presence.  But 
how  great  was  her  confusion  when,  instead  of  his  voice,  she 
heard  those  of  the  marchioness  and  her  party  ! In  a moment 
the  dreadful  consequences  which  might  ensue  from  her  present 
situation  rushed  upon  her  mind.  By  the  forced  attentions  of 
the  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia,  she  was  not  long  de- 
ceived, and  had  reason  to  believe,  from  the  inveterate  dislike 
they  bore  her,  that  they  would  rejoice  at  an  opportunity  like 
the  present  for  traducing  her  fame ; and  with  horror  she  saw 
that  appearances,  even  in  the  eyes  of  candor,  would  be  against 
her.  She  had  positively,  and  unexpectedly,  refused  going  to 
the  ball.  She  had  expressed  delight  at  the  idea  of  staying  at 
home.  Alas ! would  not  all  these  circumstances  be  dwelt 
upon  ? What  ideas  might  they  not  excite  in  Lord  Mortimer, 
who  already  showed  a tendency  to  jealousy  ? Half  wild  at  the 
idea,  she  clasped  her  hands  together  and  exclaimed,  in  a voice 
trembling  with  anguish,  “ Merciful  heaven,  I am  ruined  for- 
ever ! ” 

“ No,  no,”  cried  Belgrave,  flinging  himself  at  her  feet,  “ par- 
don me,  Amanda,  and  I never  more  will  molest  you.  I see 
your  principles  are  invincible.  I admire,  I revere  your  purity, 


272 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABB  El.  ^ 


and  never  more  will  I attempt  to  injure  it.  I was  on  the  point 
of  declaring  so  when  that  cursed  knock  came  to  the  door. 
Compose  yourself,  and  consider  what  can  be  done  in  the  pres- 
ent emergency.  You  will  be  ruined  if  I am  seen  with  you. 
The  malicious  devils  you  live  with  would  never  believe  our 
united  asseverations  of  your  innocence.  Conceal  me,  there- 
fore, if  possible,  till  the  family  are  settled  ; the  person  who  let 
me  in  will  then  secure  my  retreat,  and  I swear  solemnly  never 
more  to  trouble  you.’’ 

Amanda  hesitated  between  the  confidence  her  innocence 
inspired,  and  the  dread  of  the  unpleasant  construction  malice 
might  put  on  her  situation.  She  heard  the  party  ascending  the 
stairs.  Fear  conquered  her  reluctance  to  concealment,  and 
she  motioned  to  Belgrave  to  retire  to  a closet  adjoining  the 
dressing-room.  He  obeyed  the  motion,  and  closed  the  door 
softly  after  him. 

Amanda,  snatching  up  her  book,  endeavored  to  compose 
herself ; but  the  effort  was  ineffectual — she  trembled  univer- 
sally— nor  was  her  agitation  diminished  when,  from  the  outside 
of  the  door.  Lady  Euphrasia  called  to  her  to  open  it.  She 
tottered  to  it,  and  almost  fainted  on  finding  it  locked — with 
difficulty  she  opened  it,  and  the  whole  party,  followed  by  the 
marquis,  entered. 

Upon  my  word.  Miss  Fitzalan,”  said  the  marchioness, 
‘‘  you  were  determined  no  one  should  disturb  your  meditations. 
I fear  we  have  surprised  you  ; but  poor  Euphrasia  was  taken 
ill  at  the  ball,  and  we  were  obliged  to  return  with  her.”  Miss 
Fitzalan  has  not  been  much  better,  I believe,”  said  Lady  Eu- 
phrasia, regarding  her  attentively.  Good  Lord,  child  ! ” 
cried  Lady  Greystock,  “ what  is  the  matter  with  you  ? why,  you 
look  as  pale  as  if  you  had  seen  a ghost.  ‘‘  Miss  Fitzalan  is 
fond  of  solitude,”  exclaimed  the  marquis,  preventing  her  re- 
plying to  Lady  Greystock.  ‘‘  When  I returned  home  about  an 
hour  ago,  I sent  to  request  her  company  in  the  parlor,  which 
honor,  I assure  you,  I was  refused.” 

The  message,  indeed,  had  been  sent,  but  never  delivered 
to  Amanda. 

“I  assure  you,  my  lord,”  said  she,  heard  of  no  such  re- 
quest.” “ And  pray,  child,  how  have  you  been  employed  all 
this  time"?  ” asked  Lady  Greystock.  “ In  reading,  madam,” 
faltered  out  Amanda,  while  her  death-like  paleness  was  suc- 
ceeded by  a deep  blush.  “You  are  certainly  ill,”  said  Lord 
Mortimer,  who  sat  beside  her,  in  a voice  expressive  of  regret 
at  the  conviction.  “You  have  been  indulging  melancholy 


THE  CHILDREN  GF  THE  ABBEY. 


273 

ideas,  1 fear,”  continued  he  softly,  and  taking  her  hand,  for 
surely — surely  to-night  you  are  uncommonly  affected.” 

Amanda  attempted  to  speak.  The  contending  emotions  of 
her  mind  prevented  her  utterance,  and  the  tears  trickled  silent- 
ly down  her  cheeks.  Lord  Mortimer  saw  she  wished  to  avoid 
notice,  3^et  scarcely  could  he  forbear  requesting  some  assistance 
for  her. 

Lady  Euphrasia  now  complained  of  a violent  headache. 
The  marchioness  wanted  to  ring  for  remedies.  This  Lady 
Euphrasia  opposed  ; at  last,  as  if  suddenly  recollecting  it,  she 
said,  in  the  closet  there  was  a bottle  of  eau-de-luce,  which 
she  was  certain  would  be  of  service  to  her.” 

At  the  mention  of  the  closet,  the  blood  ran  cold  through 
the  veins  of  Amanda ; but  when  she  saw  Lady  Euphrasia  rise 
to  enter  it,  had  death,  in  its  most  frightful  form,  stared  her  in 
the  face,  she  could  not  have  betrayed  more  horror.  She  looked 
towards  it  with  a countenance  as  expressive  of  Vv^ild  affright  as 
Macbeth’s,  when  viewing  the  chair  on  which  the  spectre  of  the 
murdered  Banquo  sat.  Lord  Mortimer  observing  the  disorder 
of  her  looks,  began  to  tremble.  He  grasped  her. hand  with  a 
convulsive  motion,  and  exclaimed  : 

‘'Amanda,  what  means  this  agitation  ? ” 

A loud  scream  from  Lady  Euphrasia  broke  upon  their  ears, 
and  she  rushed  from  the  closet,  followed  by  Belgrave. 

“ Gracious  Heaven  ! ” exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer,  dropping 
Amanda’s  hand,  and  rising  precipitately. 

Amanda  looked  around — she  beheld  every  eye  fastened  on 
her  with  amazement  and  contempt.  The  shock  was  too  much 
for  her  to  support.  A confused  idea  started  into  her  mind  that 
a deep-laid  plot  had  been  concerted  to  ruin  her ; she  faintly 
exclaimed,  “ I am  betrayed,”  and  sunk  back  upon  the  sofa. 

Lord  Mortimer  started  at  her  exclamation.  “ Oh  Heavens  1 
cried  he,  as  he  looked  towards  her;  unable  to  support  the 
scene  that  would  ensue  in  consequence  of  this  discovery,  he 
struck  his  forehead  in  agony,  and  rushed  out  of  the  room.  In 
the  hall  he  was  stopped  by  Mrs.  Jane,  the  maid  appointed  by 
the  marchioness  to  attend  Amanda. 

“ Alack- a-day,  my  lord,”  said  she,  in  a whimpering  voice, 
“ something  dreadful,  I am  afraid,  has  happened  above  stairs. 
Oh  dear  ! what  people  suffer  sometimes  by  their  good  nature. 
I am  sure,  if  I thought  any  harm  would  ceme  of  granting  Miss 
FitzaHn’s  request,  she  might  have  begged  and  prayed  long 
enough,  before  I would  have  obliged  her.”  Did  she  desire  you 
to  bring  Colonel  Belgravs  to  this  house  ? ” asked  Lord  Morti- 


?74 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


mer.  ‘‘  Oh,  to  be  sure  she  did,  my  lord,  or  how  should  I ever 
have  thought  of  such  a thing  ? She  has  been  begging  and 
praying  long  enough  for  me  to  contrive  some  way  of  bringing 
him  here ; and  she  told  me  a piteous  story,  which  would  have 
softened  a stone,  of  his  being  a sweetheart  of  hers  before  he 
was  married.’’  ‘‘  Merciful  powers  ! ” cried  Lord  Mortimer, 
clasping  his  hands  together,  “ how  have  I been  deceived.” 

He  was  hurrying  away,  when  Mrs.  Jane  caught  his  coat. 

I shall  lose  my  place,”  said  she,  sobbing,  that  I shall,  most 
certainly  ; for  my  lord  and  lady  never  will  forgive  my  bring- 
ing any  one  in  such  a way  into  the  house.  I am  sure,  I 
thought  no  great  harm  in  it,  and  did  it  quite  from  good  nature  ; 
for,  indeed,  how  could  one  resist  the  poor,  dear  young  lady ; 
she  cried,  and  said  she  only  wanted  to  bid  farewell  to  her  dear 
Belgrave.” 

Lord  Mortimer  could  hear  no  more.  He  shook  her  from 
him,  and  hurried  from  the  house. 

Amanda’s  faculties  suffered  but  a momentary  suspension  ; 
as  she  opened  her  eyes,  her  composure  and  fortitude  returned. 

“ I am  convinced,”  said  she,  rising  and  advancing  to  the 
marquis,  ‘‘  it  will  shock  your  lordship  to  hear,  that  it  is  the 
treachery  of  some  person  under  your  roof  has  involved  me  in 
my  present  embarrassing  situation.  For  my  own  justification, 
’tis  necessary  to  acknowledge  that  I have  long  been  the  object 
of  a pursuit  from  Colonel  Belgrave,  as  degrading  to  his  char- 
acter as  insulting  to  mine.  When  he  broke  so  unexpectedly 
upon  me  to-night,  he  declared,  even  with  effrontery  declared, 
he  had  a friend  in  this  house  who  gave  him  access  to  it.  As 
your  guest,  my  lord,  I may  expect  your  lordship’s  protection  ; 
also  that  an  immediate  inquiry  be  made  for  the  abettor  in  this 
scheme  against  me,  and  a full  discovery  of  it  extorted — that 
should  the  affair  be  mentioned,  it  may  be  explained,  and  my 
fame  cleared  of  every  imputation.”  “That,  madam,”  said  the 
mairquis,  with  a malicious  sneer,  “would  not  be  quite  so  easy  a 
matter  as  you  may  perhaps  suppose.  Neither  the  world  not  I 
am  so  credulous  as  you  imagine.  Your  story,  madam,  by  no 
means  hangs  well  together.  There  is  no  person  in  my  house 
would  have  dared  to  commit  the  act  you  accuse  them  of,  as  they 
must  know  the  consequence  of  it  would  be  immediate  dismission 
from  my  service.  Had  not  Colonel  Belgrave  been  voluntarily 
admitted,  he  never  would  have  been  concealed  ; — no,  madam, 
you  would  have  rejoiced  at  the  opportunity  our  presence  gave 
you  of  punishing  his  temerity.  Innocence  is  bpld  ^ ’kis  ;gailt 
alone  is  timorous.” 


TBE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


27s 


The  truth  of  part  of  his  speech  struck  forcibly  on  Amanda ; 
but  how  could  she  explain  her  conduct  ? — how  declare  it  was 
her  dread  of  the  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia’s  malice 
which  had  made  her  consent  to  conceal  him. 

Oh,  I see,’’  said  she,  in  the  agony  of  her  soul — ‘‘  I see  I 
am  the  dupe  of  complicated  artifice.”  ‘‘  I never  in  my  life,” 
cried  the  marchioness,  ‘‘  met  with  such  assurance — to  desire 
the  marquis  to  be  her  champion.”  ‘‘As  she  was  intrusted  to 
my  care,  however,”  exclaimed  Lady  Grey  stock,  “ I think  it 
necessary  to  inquire  into  the  affair.  Pray,  sir,”  turning  to  the 
colonel,  “ by  what  means  did  you  come  here  ? ” 

The  colonel,  with  undiminished  assurance,  had  hitherto 
stood  near  the  fatal  closet  leaning  on  a chair. 

“That,  madam,”  replied  he,  “I  must  be  excused  revealing. 
Let  me,  however,  assure  your  ladyship  ’tis  not  on  my  own  ac- 
count I affect  concealment.”  Here  he  glanced  at  Amanda. 
“ Those  parts  of  my  conduct,  however,  which  I choose  to  con- 
ceal, I shall  always  be  ready  to  defend.”  “ Sir,”  cried  the 
marquis  haughtily,  “ no  explanation  or  defence  of  your  conduct 
is  here  required  ; I have  neither  right  nor  inclination  to  inter- 
fere in  Miss  Fitzalan’s  concerns.” 

The  colonel  bowed  to  the  circle,  and  was  retiring,  when 
Amanda  flew  to  him  and  caught  his  arm.  “ Surely,  surely,” 
said  she,  almost  gasping  for  breath,  “ you  cannot  be  so 
inhuman  as  to  retire  without  explaining  this  whole  affair.  Oh, 
Belgrave,  leave  me  not  a prey  to  slander.  By  all  your  hopes 
of  mercy  and  forgiveness  hereafter,  I conjure  you  to  clear  n?.y 
fame.” 

“ My  dear  creature,”  said  he,  in  a low  voice,  yet  low  enough 
to  be  heard  by  the  whole  party,  “ anything  I could  say  would 
be  unavailing.  You  find  they  are  determined  not  to  see  things 
in  the  light  we  wish  them  viewed.  Compose  yourself,  I beseech 
you,  and  be  assured,  while  I exist,  you  never  shall  want  comfoit 
or  affluence.” 

He  gently  disengaged  himself  as  he  spoke,  and  quitted  the 
room,  leaving  her  riveted  to  the  floor  in  amazement  at  his  in- 
solence and  perfidy. 

“ I am  sure,”  said  Lady  Greystock,  “ I shall  regret  all  m) 
life  the  hour  in  which  I took  her  under  my  protection  ; though^ 
indeed,  from  what  I heard  soon  after  my  arrival  in  London,  } 
should  have  dispatched  her  back  to  her  father,  but  I felt  a 
foolish  pity  for  her.  I was  in  hopes,  indeed,  the  society  I had 
introduced  her  to  would  have  produced  a reformation,  and  that 
1 might  be  the  means  of  saving  a young  creature  from  entire 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


2i6 

destruction.’’  ‘‘  From  what  I have  already  suffered  by  her 
family,  nothing  should  have  tempted  me  to  take  her  under  my 
roof,”  exclaimed  the  marchioness.  “Was  she  my  relation,” 
cried  the  marquis,  “ I should  long  since  have  come  to  a detep 
mination  about  her  ; as  yours,  madam,”  turning  to  the  mar- 
chioness, “ I shall  not  attempt  forming  one  ; I deem  it,  however, 
absolutely  necessary  to  remove  Lady  Euphrasia  Sutherland  from 
the  house  till  the  young  lady  chooses  to  quit  it.  I shall  there- 
fore order  the  carriage  to  be  ready  at  an  early  hour  for  the 
villa.” 

“ I shall  certainly  accompany  your  lordship,”  cried  the 
marchioness,  “for  I cannot  endure  her  sight;  and  though  she 
deserves  it,  it  shall  not  be  said  that  we  turned  her  from  the 
house.”  “ The  only  measure  she  should  pursue,”  exclaimed 
Lady  Greystock,  “ is  to  set  off  as  soon  as  possible  for  Ireland  ; 
when  she  returns  to  obscurity  the  affair  may  die  away.”  “ It 
may,  however,”  said  Amanda,  “be  yet  revived  to  cover  with 
confusion  its  contrivers.  To  Heaven  I leave  the  vindication  of 
my  innocence.  Its  justice  ia  sure,  though  sometimes  slow,  and 
the  hour  of  retribution  often  arrives  when  least  expected. 
Much  as  I have  suffered — much  as  I may  still  suffer,  I think 
my  own  situation  preferable  to  theirs  who  have  set  their  snares 
around  me.  The  injurer  must  ever  feel  greater  pangs  than  the 
injured — the  pangs  of  guht  and  remorse.  I shall  return  to  my 
obscurity,  happy  in  the  consciousness  that  it  is  not  a shelter 
from  shame,  but  a refuge  from  cruelty  I seek.  But  can  I be 
surprised  at  meeting  cruelty  from  those  who  have  long  since 
waived  the  ties  of  kindred? — from  those,”  and  she  glanced  at 
Lady  Greystock,  “ who  have  set  aside  the  claims  of  justice  and 
humanity  ? ” 

The  marchioness  trembled  with  rage  at  this  speech,  and 
as  Amanda  retired  from  the  room,  exclaimed,  intolerable  as- 
surance.” 

Amanda  repaired  immediately  to  her  chamber.  She  tottered 
as  she  walked,  and  the  housekeeper  and  Mrs.  Jane,  who,  with 
some  other  servants,  had  assembled  out  of  curiosity  near  the 
door,  followed  her  thither. 

The  emotions  she  had  so  painfully  suppressed  now  burst 
forth  with  violence.  She  fell  into  an  agony  of  tears  and  sobs 
which  impeded  her  breathing.  The  housekeeper  and  Jane 
(oosened  her  clothes  and  supported  her  to  the  bed.  In  a short 
time  she  was  sufficiently  recovered  to  be  able  to  speak,  and 
requested  they  would  engage  a carriage  for  her  against  the 
next  day,  at  an  early  hour,  that  she  might  commence  her 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


277 

journey  to  Ireland.  This  they  promised,  and  at  her  desire 
retired. 

Success,  but  not  happiness,  had  crowned  the  marchioness’s 
scheme.  She  triumphed  in  the  disgrace  she  had  drawn,  upon 
Amanda,  but  feared  that  disgrace  was  only  temporary.  She 
had  entangled  her  in  a snare,  but  she  dreaded  not  having 
secured  her  in  it.  She  distrusted  those  who  had  assisted  her 
designs — for  the  guilty  will  ever  suspect  each  other.  They 
might  betray  her,  or  Colonel  Belgrave  might  repent ; but  such 
evils,  if  they  did  ever  arrive,  were  probably  far  distant.  In  the 
interim,  all  she  desired  to  accomplish  might  be  effected.  Long 
had  she  been  meditating  on  some  plan  which  should  ruin 
Amanda  forever — not  only  in  the  opinion  of  Lord  Mortimer, 
but  in  the  estimation  of  the  world.  With  the  profligacy  of 
Colonel  Belgrave  she  was  well  acquainted,  and  inclined  from  it 
to  believe  that  he  would  readily  join  in  any  scheme  which  could 
give  him  a chance  of  possessing  Amanda.  On  discovering  her 
residence,  he  had  ordered  his  valet,  who  was  a trusty  agent  in 
all  his  villanies,  to  endeavor  to  gain  access  to  the  house,  that 
he  might  discover  whetjier  there  was  a chance  of  introducing 
him  there.  The  valet  obeyed  his  orders,  and  soon  attached 
himself  to  Mrs.  Jane,  whom  the  marchioness  had  placed  about 
Amanda,  from  knowing  she  was  capable  of  any  deceitful  part. 
She  was  introduced  to  Belgrave,  and  a handsome  present  se- 
cured her  in  his  interest. 

She  communicated  to  the  marchioness  the  particulars  of 
their  interview.  From  that  period  they  had  been  seeking  to 
bring  about  such  a scene  as  was  at  last  acted ; for  the  conduct 
of  Amanda  had  hitherto  defeated  their  intentions.  Her  staying 
from  the  ball  at  last  gave  the  wished-for  opportunity. 

Lady  Euphrasia  was  apprised  of  the  whole  plot,  and  the 
hint  of  her  indisposition  was  given  in  the  morning,  that  no  sus- 
picion might  be  entertained  in  the  evening,  when  mentioned  as 
a plea  for  returning  home  earlier  than  was  intended. 

Colonel  Belgrave  was  introduced  into  the  closet  by  Mrs. 
Jane,  through  a door  that  opened  from  the  lobby;  and  whilst 
Amanda  sat  pensively  reading,  he  stole  out,  and  secured  the 
other  door,  as  already  mentioned. 

When  Lady  Euphrasia  declared  she  was  too  ill  to  continue 
at  the  ball.  Lord  Mortimer  offered  to  attend  her  home.  Flad 
he  not  done  so,  the  marchioness  intended  to  have  asked  him. 

The  marquis  was  persuaded  that  Amanda  was  an  artful  and 
dangerous  rival  to  his  daughter,  and  he  hated  her  from  that 
consideration.  The  laws  of  hospitality  obliged  him  to  treat  hex 


278  the  children  of  the  abbey, 

with  politeness,  but  he  gladly  seized  the  first  opportunity  that 
offered  for  expressing  his  dislike. 

Lady  Greystock  saw  through  the  plot,  but  she  professed  her 
belief  of  Amanda’s  guilt,  which  was  all  the  marchioness  required. 

The  marquis  left  the  ladies  together,  while  he  went  to  give 
orders  about  his  early  journey.  Soon  after  his  departure  a 
loud  knocking  was  heard,  which  announced  a visitor  ; and 
from  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  they  conjectured,  and  were  right 
in  doing  so,  that  it  must  be  Lord  Mortimer. 

After  traversing  several  streets,  in  an  agony  no  language  could 
describe,  he  returned  to  Portman  Square.  His  fancy  presented 
Amanda  to  his  view,  overwhelmed  with  shame,  and  sinking 
beneath  the  keen  reproaches  levelled  at  her.  In  the  idea  of  her 
sufferings,  all  resentment  for  the  supposed  perfidy  was  forgotten. 
Human  nature  was  liable  to  err,  and  the  noblest  efforts  that 
nature  could  make,  was  to  pardon  such  errors.  To  speak  com- 
fort to  this  fallen  angel,  he  felt  would  relieve  the  weight  which 
pressed  upon  his  own  breast.  Pale  and  disordered  he  entered 
the  room,  and  found  the  ladies  apparently  much  affected. 

My  dear  lord,”  said  the  marchioness,  ‘‘  I am  glad  you  are 
come  back.  As  a friend  of  the  family,  you  may  perhaps  honoi 
us  with  your  advice  on  the  present  occasion.”  ‘‘  Indeed,”  ex- 
claimed Lady  Greystock,  ‘‘  I suppose  his  lordship  is  at  as  great 
a loss  to  know  what  can  be  done  as  we  are.  Was  the  colonel 
in  a situation  to  make  any  reparation — but  a married  man,  only 
think,  how  horrible  ! ” Execrable  monster  ! ” cried  Lord 
•Mortimer,  starting  from  his  seat,  and  traversing  the  room,  ‘‘  it 
were  a deed  of  kindness  to  mankind  to  extirpate  him  from  the 
earth  : but  say,”  continued  he,  and  his  voice  faltered  as  he 

spoke,  where  is  the  unfortunate ,”  he  could  not  pronounce 

the  name  of  Amanda.  “ In  her  own  room,”  replied  the  mar- 
chioness. I assure  you,  she  behaved  with  not  a little  inso- 
lence, on  Lady  Greystock  advising  her  to  return  home.  For 
my  part,  I shall  let  her  act  as  she  pleases.” 

She  then  proceeded  to  mention  the  marquis’s  resolution  of 
leaving  the  house  till  she  had  quitted  it,  and  that  he  insisted  on 
their  accompanying  him. 

‘‘To  return  to  her  father  is  certainly  the  only  eligible  plan 
she  can  pursue,”  said  Lord  Mortimer  ; “ but  allow  me,”  con- 
tinued he,  “ to  request  that  your  ladyship  will  not  impute  to 
insolence  any  expression  which  dropped  from  her.  Pity  her 
wounded  feelings,  and  soften  her  sorrows.”  “ I declare,”  cried 
Lady  Euphrasia,  “ I thought  I should  have  fainted  from  the 
pity  I telt  for  her.”  “ You  pitied  her,  then.”  said  Lord  Morti- 


7'IIE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


279 

timer,  sitting  down  by  her  ladyship,  ‘‘  you  pitied  and  soothed 
her  afflictions?  ’’  “Yes,  indeed,’^  replied  she. 

If  ever  Lady  Euphrasia  appeared  pleasing  in  the  eyes  of 
Lord  Mortimer,  it  was  at  this  moment,  when  he  was  credulous 
enough  to  believe  she  had  shed  the  tear  of  pity  over  his  lost 
Amanda.  He  took  her  hand.  “ Ah  ! my  dear  Lady  Euphra^ 
sia,’’  said  he,  in  an  accent  of  melting  softness,  “ perhaps  even 
now  she  needs  consolation.  A gentle  female  friend  would  be 
a comfort  to  her  wounded  heart.’’ 

Lady  Euphrasia  immediately  took  the  hint,  and  said  she 
would  go  to  her. 

He  led  her  to  the  door.  “You  are  going,”  cried  he,  “ to 
perform  the  office  of  an  angel — to  console  the  afflicted.  Ah ! 
well  does  it  become  the  young  and  gentle  of  your  sex  to  pity 
such  misfortunes,” 

Her  ladyship  retired,  but  not  indeed  to  the  chamber  of  the 
forlorn  Amanda.  In  her  own  she  vented  the  rage  of  her  soul 
in  something  iittie  short  of  execrations  against  Lord  Mortimer, 
for  the  affection  she  saw  he  still  retained  for  Amanda. 

On  her  ladyship’s  retiring.  Lady  Greystock  mentioned  every 
particular  she  had  heard  from  Mrs.  Jennings,  and  bitterly 
lamented  her  having  ever  taken  Amanda  under  her  protection 
The  subject  was  too  painful  to  be  long  endured  by  Lord  Morth 
mer.  He  had  heard  of  the  early  hour  fixed  for  their  journey, 
and  saying  he  would  no  longer  keep  the  ladies  from  repose, 
precipitately  retired.  He  gave  his  man  directions  to  watch 
their  motions,  and  inform  him  when  they  left  town. 

Exhausted  by  the  violence  of  her  emotions,  a temporary 
forgetfulness  stole  over  the  senses  of  Amanda,  on  her  being  left 
to  solitude.  In  this  state  she  continued  till  roused  by  a bustle 
in  the  house.  She  started,  listened,  and  heard  the  sound  of  a 
carriage.  Supposing  it  to  be  the  one  she  had  ordered  for  her 
departure,  she  sprang  from  the  bed,  and,  going  to  the  window, 
saw,  instead  of  one  for  her,  the  marquis’s,  into  which  he  was 
handing  the  ladies.  As  soon  as  it  drove  from  the  door,  she 
rang  the  bell,  and  the  housekeeper  immediately  appeared,  as 
Mrs.  Jane  had  attended  the  marchioness  to  the  villa.  Amanda 
inquired  “ whether  a carriage,  as  she  directed,  had  been  en- 
gaged for  her.” 

The  housekeeper  replied,  “ the  hour  in  which  she  spoke  was 
too  late  for  such  a purpose,  but  she  had  now  sent  about  one.” 

Amanda  endeavored  to  exert  herself,  and  was  packing  up 
her  clothes,  when  a maid  entered  the  chamber,  and  said,  “ Lord 
Mortimer  was  below,  and  wished  to  speak  to  her.” 


200 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  . 


Tumultuous  joy  pervaded  the  mind  of  Amanda.  She  had 
believed  it  probable  she  should  not  see  him  again  before  her 
departure  for  Ireland,  from  whence  she  had  determined  writing 
to  him  the  particulars  of  the  affair.  His  visit  seemed  to  an- 
nounce he  thought  not  unfavorably  of  her.  She  supposed  he 
came  to  assure  her  that  his  opinion  of  her  integrity  was  un- 
shaken— ‘‘and  I shall  yet  triumph,”  cried  she,  in  the  transport 
of  the  idea,  “ over  malice  and  treachery.” 

She  sprung  past  the  maid  ; her  feet  scarce  touched  the 
ground,  and  in  a moment  she  found  herself  in  the  arms  of  Lord 
Mortimer,  which  involuntarily  opened  to  receive  her,  for,  trem- 
bling weak,  and  disordered,  she  would  else,  on  seeing  him,  have 
sunk  to  the  floor.  He  supported  her  to  a sofa.  In  a little 
time  she  raised  her  head  from  his  'shoulder,  and  exdaimed, 
“ Oh  ! you  are  come  ! I know  you  are  come,  to  comfort  me.” 
“Would  to  Heaven,”  he  answered,  “I  were  capable  of  either 
giving  or  receiving  comfort.  The  period,  however,  I trust,  may 
yet  arrive  when  we  shall  both  at  least  be  more  composed.  Ta 
mitigate  your  sorrows  would  lessen  my  own ; for  never,  on, 
never  1 can  my  heart  forget  the  love  and  esteem  it  once  bore 
Amanda.”  “ Once  bore  her  ! ” repeated  Amanda.  “ Once 
bore  her.  Lord  Mortimer  ! do  you  say  ? Then  you  wish  to 
imply  they  no  longer  exist  1 ” 

The  tone  of  anguish  in  which  she  spoke,  pierced  the  heart 
of  Lord  Mortimer.  Unable  to  speak,  he  arose,  and  walked  to 
the  window,  to  hide  his  emotion.  His  words,  his  silence,  all 
conveyed  a fatal  truth  to  Amanda.  She  saw  a dreadful  and 
eternal  separation  effected  between  her  and  Lord  Mortimer. 
She  beheld  herself  deprived  of  reputation,  loaded  with  calumny, 
and  no  longer  an  object  of  love,  but  of  detestation  and  contempt. 
Her  anguish  was  almost  too  great  to  bear,  yet  the  pride  of  in- 
jured innocence  made  her  wish  to  conceal  it ; and,  as  Lord 
Mortimer  stood  at  the  window,  she  determined  to  try  and  leav^e 
the  room  without  his  knowledge,  but  ere  she  gained  the  door 
her  head  grew  giddy,  her  strength  failed,  she  staggered,  faintly 
screamed  on  finding  herself  falling,  and  sunk  upon  the  floor. 

Lord  Mortimer  wildly  called  for  assistance.  He  raised  and 
carried  her  back  to  the  sofa  ; he  strained  her  to  his  bosom, 
kissed  her  pale  lips,  and  wept  over  her. 

“ I have  wounded  your  gentle  soul,  my  Amanda,”  cried  he, 
“ but  I have  tortured  my  own  by  doing  so.  Ah  ! still  dearest 
of  women,  did  the  world  compassionate  your  errors  as  I com- 
passionate them,  neither  contempt  nor  calumny  would  ever  be 
your  portion.  How  pale  she  looks  ! ” said  he,  raising  his  head 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


281 


to  gaze  upon  her  face  \ ‘‘  how  like  a lovely  flower  untimely 
faded ! Yet  were  it  happiness  for  her  never  to  revive  ; a soul 
like  hers,  originally  noble,  must  be  wretched  under  the  pressure 
of  scorn.  Execrable  Belgrave  ! the  fairest  work  of  Heaven  is 
destroyed  by  you.  Oh  ! my  Amanda,  my  distress  is  surely 
severe — though  anguish  rives  my  heart  for  your  loss,  I musc 
conceal  it — the  sad  luxury  of  grief  will  be  denied  me,  for  the 
world  would  smile  if  I could  say  I now  lamented  you.’’ 

Such  were  the  effusions  of  sorrow  which  broke  from  Lord 
Mortimer  over  the  insensible  Amanda.  The  housekeeper,  who 
had  been  listening  all  this  time,  now  appeared,  as  if  in  obedi- 
ence to  his  call,  and  offered  hef  assistance  in  recovering  Amanda. 
Heavy  sighs  at  length  gave  hopes  of  her  restoration.  Lord 
Mortimer,  unable  to  support  her  pathetic  lamentations,  deter- 
mined to  depart  ere  she  was  perfectly  sensible. 

“ Miss  Fitzalan,”  said  he  to  the  housekeeper,  ‘‘will  wish,  I 
am  convinced,  to  quit  this  house  immediately.  I shall  take 
upon  myself  to  procure  her  a carriage,  also  a proper  attendant, 
for  her  journey,  which,  I flatter  myself,  she  will  be  able  to  com- 
mence in  a few  hours.  Be  kind,  be  gentle  to  her,  my  good 
woman,  and  depend  on  my  eternal  gratitude.  When  she  is 
recovered,  deliver  her  this  letter.” 

The  housekeeper  promised  to  observe  his  injunctions,  and 
he  departed. 

To  Ireland,  with  Amanda,  he  intended  sending  an  old 
female  servant,  who  had  formerly  been  an  attendant  of  his 
mother’s,  and  his  own  man.  He  was  shocked  at  the  conduct  of 
the  marchioness  and  Lady  Greystock,  and  thought  them  guilty 
of  the  highest  inhumanity  in  thus  deserting  Amanda.  The 
letter  he  had  put  into  the  housekeeper’s  hands  excited  her 
curiosity  so  strongly  that  she  was  tempted  to  gratify  it. 
Amanda  was  not  in  a situation  to  perceive  what  she  did,  the 
letter  could  easily  be  sealed  again,  and,  in  short,  without  longer 
hesitation,  she  opened  it.  How  great  was  her  amazement,  on 
finding  it  contained  a bank-note  for  five  hundred  pounds.  The 
words  were  as  follows  : — 

Consider  me,  Amanda,  in  the  light  of  a brother  ; as  such  accept  my  ser- 
vices ; to  serve  you,  in  any  manner,  will  be  a source  of  consolation,  which, 
I flatter  myself,  you  will  be  happy  to  allow  me.  ’Tis  necessary  you  should 
return  immediately  to  your  father  ; hesitate  not,  then,  about  using  the 
enclosed.  Your  complying  with  my  request  will  prove  that  you  yet  retain 
friendship  for 

Moktimer. 

“ What  a sum,”  cried  the  housekeeper,  as  sne  examined  the 


282 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


note  ; what  a nice  little  independency  would  this,  in  addition 
to  what  I have  already  saved,  be  for  an  honest  woman  ! What 
a pity  it  is  such  a creature  as  it  is  designed  for  should  possess 
it ! ” The  housekeeper,  like  her  lady,  was  fertile  in  invention  ; 
to  be  sure  there  was  some  danger  in  her  present  scheme,  but 
for  such  a prize  it  was  worth  her  while  to  run  some  risk.  Could 
she  but  get  Amanda  off  ere  the  carriage  from  Lord  Mortimer 
arrived,  she  believed  all  would  succeed  as  she  could  wish. 
Amanda,  ignorant  as  she  was  of  Lord  Mortimer’s  intentions, 
would  not,  consequently,  be  influenced  by  them,  to  oppose  any- 
thing she  could  do.  Full  of  this  idea,  she  ran  out,  and  calling 
a footman,  high  in  her  favor,  desired  him  immediately  to  procure 
a travelling  chaise  for  Miss  Fitzalan.  She  then  returned  to 
Amanda,  who  was  just  beginning  to  move. 

“ Come,  come,”  cried  she,  going  to  her,  and  roughly  shaking 
her  shoulder,  have  done  with  those  tragedy  airs,  and  prepare 
yourself  against  the  carriage  you  ordered,  comes  : it  will  be  at 
the  door  in  a few  minutes.” 

Amanda  looked  lound  the  room.  “ Is  Lord  Mortimer  gone, 
then  ? ” said  she.  ‘‘  Lord,  to  be  sure  he  is,”  cried  the  house- 
keeper ; “ he  left  you  on  the  floor,  and,  as  he  went  out,  he  said 
you  should  never  have  another  opportunity  of  deceiving  him.” 

A sudden  frenzy  seemed  to  seize  Amanda  ; she  wrung  her 
hands,  called  upon  Lord  Mortimer  in  the  impassioned  language 
of  despair,  and  flung  herself  on  the  ground,  exclaiming,  This 
last  stroke  is  more  than  I can  bear.” 

The  housekeeper  grew  alarmed,  lest  her  agitation  should 
retard  her  departure  ; she  raised  her  forcibly  from  the  ground, 
and  said,  she  must  compose  herself  to  begin  her  journey, 
which  was  unavoidable,  as  the  marchioness  had  given  absolute 
orders  to  have  her  sent  from  the  house  early  in  the  morning.” 

‘‘Accursed  house  ! ” said  Amanda,  wFose  reason  was  restored 
by  the  strenuous  remonstrances  of  the  housekeeper  : “ Oh,  that 
I had  never  entered  it ! ” She  then  told  her  companion,  “ if 
she  would  assist  her,  as  she  was  almost  too  weak  to  do  anything 
for  herself,  she  would  be  ready  against  the  carriage  came.” 
The  housekeeper  and  maid  accordingly  attended  her  to  her 
chamber  ; the  formei  brought  her  drops,  and  the  latter  assisted 
in  putting  on  her  habit,  and  packing  up  her  clothes.  Amanda 
having  secured  her  trunks,  desired  they  might  be  sent,  by  the 
first  opportunity,  to  Castle  carberry  ; she  had  left  a great  many 
clothes  there,  so  took  notiiing  at  present  with  her  but  a small 
quantity  of  linen.  She  had  but  a few  guineas  in  her  purse  ; her 
watch,  however,  was  valuable  ; and  if  she  had  monev  enough  to 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  283 

carry  her  to  Dublin,  she  knew  there  she  might  procure  a suffi- 
cient sum  on  it  to  carry  her  home. 

At  last  the  carriage  came  ; with  a trembling  frame,  and 
half-broken  heart,  Amanda  entered  it.  She  saw  Nicholas,  the 
footman,  who  had  procured  it,  ready  mounted  to  attend  her. 
She  told  him  it  was  unnecessary  to  do  so  ; but  he  declared  he 
could  not  think  of  letting  so  young  a lady  travel  unprotected. 
She  was  pleased  at  his  attention : she  had  shuddered  at  the 
idea  of  her  forlorn  situation,  and  now  dropped  a tear  of  sweet 
sensibility  at  finding  she  was  not  utterly  deserted  by  every 
human  being.  The  carriage  took  the  road  to  Parkgate,  as 
Amanda  chose  to  embark  from  thence,  the  journey  being  so 
much  nearer  to  it  than  to  Holyhead.  It  was  now  about  eight 
o’clock  ; after  travelling  four  hours,  the  chaise  stopped  at  a 
small  house  on  the  roadside,  which  appeared  to  be  a common 
ale-house.  Amanda  was  unwilling  to  enter  it;  but  the  horses 
were  here  to  be  changed  ; and  she  was  shown  into  a dirty  parlor, 
where,  almost  sinking  with  weakness,  she  ordered  tea  to  be 
immediately  brought  in.  She  was  much  astonished,  as  she  sat 
at  the  tea-table,  to  see  Nicholas  enter  the  room  with  a familiar 
air,  and  seat  himself  by  her.  She  stared  at  him  at  first,  suppos- 
ing him  intoxicated ; but  perceiving  no  signs  of  this  in  his 
countenance,  began  to  fear  that  the  insults  she  had  received  at 
the  marquis’s  made  him  think  himself  authorized  to  treat  her 
with  this  insolence.  She  arose  abruptly,  and,  summoning  all 
her  resolution  to  her  aid,  desired  him  to  retire,  adding,  If  his 
attendance  was  requisite  she  would  ring  for  him.” 

Nicholas  also  quitted  his  seat,  and  following  her,  caught  her 
in  his  arms,  exclaiming,  “ Bless  us,  how  hoity  toity  you  are 
grown.” 

Amanda  shrieked,  and  stamped  on  the  floor  in  an  agony  of 
terror  and  indignation. 

‘‘  Why,  now  really,”  said  he,  after  what  happened  at  home, 
I think  you  need  not  be  so  coy  with  me.”  “ Oh,  save  me. 
Heaven,  from  this  wretch  ! ” was  all  the  affrighted  Amanda 
could  articulate. 

The  door  opened.  A waiter  appeared,  and  told  Nicholas 
he  was  wanted  without.  Nicholas  released  Amanda,  and  ran 
directly  from  the  room.  Amanda  sunk  upon  a chair,  and  her 
head  turned  giddy  at  the  idea  of  the  dangers  with  which  she 
was  surrounded.  She  saw  herself  in  the  power  of  a wretch — • 
perhaps  wretches,  for  the  house  seemed  a proper  place  for 
scenes  of  villany — without  the  means  of  delivering  herself. 
She  walked  to  the  window.  A confused  idea  of  getting  through 


284 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


It,  and  running  from  the  house,  darted  Into  her  mind,  but  she 
turned  from  it  in  agony  at  seeing  a number  of  countrymen 
drinking  before  it.  She  now  could  only  raise  her  feeble  hands 
to  heaven  to  supplicate  its  protection. 

She  passed  some  minutes  in  this  manner,  when  the  lock 
turned  and  made  her  shudder,  but  it  was  the  landlady  alone  who 
entered.  She  came,  she  said,  with  Nicholas’s  respectful  duty, 
and  she  was  sorry  he  was  obliged  to  go  back  to  town  without 
seeing  her  safe  to  her  journey’s  end. 

Is  he  really  gone  1 ” asked  Amanda,  with  all  the  eagerness 
of  joy.  ‘‘  Yes,”  the  woman  said  ; ‘‘  a person  had  followed  him 
from  London  on  purpose  to  bring  him  back.”  ‘‘  Is-  the  carriage 
ready ” cried  Amanda.  She  was  informed  it  was.  Let  me 
fly,  then.”  The  landlady  impeded  her  progress  to  tell  her  the 
bill  was  not  yet  settled.  Amanda  pulled  out  her  purse,  and 
besought  her  not  to  detain  her.  This  the  woman  had  no  desire 
to  do.'  Things  were  therefore  settled  without  delay  between 
them,  and  Amanda  was  driven  with  as  much  expedition  as  she 
could  desire  from  the  terrifying  mansion.  The  chaise  had  pro- 
ceeded about  two  miles,  when,  in  the  middle  of  a solitary  road, 
or  rather  lane,  by  the  side  of  a wood,  it  suddenly  stopped. 
Amanda,  alarmed  at  every  incident,  hastily  looked  out,  and 
inquired  what  was  the  matter  ; but  how  impossible  to  describe 
her  terror  when  she  beheld  Colonel  Belgrave,  and  Nicholas 
standing  by  him  ! She  shrunk  back,  and  entreated  the  postilion 
to  drive  on  ; but  he  heeded  not  her  entreaty.  Nicholas  opened 
the  door,  and  Belgrave  sprang  into  the  carriage.  Amanda 
attempted  to  burst  open  the  door  at  the  opposite  side  ; but  he 
caught  her  to  his  bosom,  and  the  horses  set  off  at  full  speed. 
Colonel  Belgrave’s  valet  had  been  secreted  by  Mrs.  Jane  the 
preceding  night  in  the  house,  that  he  might  be  able  to  give  his 
master  intelligence  of  all  that  passed  within  it,  in  consequence 
of  his  being  discovered  in  the  closet.  On  hearing  the  famil)/ 
were  gone  to  the  Marquis’s  villa,  Belgrave  believed  he  could 
easily  prevail  on  the  domestics  to  deliver  up  Amanda  to  him. 
Elated  with  this  hope,  he  reached  the  house,  attended  by  his 
valet,  just  after  she  had  quitted  it.  The  housekeeper  hesitated 
to  inform  him  of  the  road  she  had  taken  till  she  had  procured 
what  she  knew  would  be  the  consequence  of  her  hesitation — a 
large  bribe.  Horses  were  then  immediately  procured,  and 
Belgrave  and  his  servant  set  off  in  pursuit  of  Amanda.  The 
sight  of  a travelling  chaise,  at  the  little  inn  already  mentioned, 
prompted  their  inquiries  ; and  on  finding  the  chaise  waited 
for  Amanda,  the  colonel  retired  to  a private  room,  sent  for 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


285 

Nicholas,  and  secured  him  in  his  interest.  It  was  settled  they 
should  repair  to  the  wood,  by  which  the  postilion  was  bribed 
to  pass,  and  from  thence  proceed  to  a country-house  of  the 
colonel’s.  Their  scheme  accomplished,  Nicholas,  happy  in  the 
service  he  had  done,  or  rather  the  reward  he  had  obtained  for 
that  service,  again  turned  his  face  towards  London. 

The  carriage  and  attendants  Lord  Mortimer  procured  for 
Amanda  arrived  even  earlier  than  the  housekeeper  had  ex- 
pected, and  she  blessed  her  lucky  stars  for  the  precipitancy 
with  which  she  had  hurried  off  Amanda.  They  were  followed 
by  his  lordship  himself,  whose  wretched  heart  could  not  sup- 
port the  idea  of  letting  Amanda  depart  without  once  more  be- 
holding her.  Great  was  his  dismay,  his  astonishment,  when 
the  housekeeper  informed  him  she  was  gone. 

“ Gone  ! ’’  he  repeated,  changing  color. 

The  housekeeper  said  that,  without  her  knowledge.  Miss 
Fitzalan  had  a chaise  hired,  and  the  moment  it  came  to  the 
door  stepped  into  it,  notwithstanding  she  was  told  his  lordship 
meant  to  provide  everything  proper  for  her  journey  himself. 
“ But  she  said,  my  lord,”  cried  the  housekeeper,  ‘‘  she  wanted 
none  of  your  care,  and  that  she  could  never  get  fast  enough 
from  a house,  or  from  people,  where  and  by  whom  she  had 
been  so  ill  treated.” 

Lord  Mortimei  asked  if  she  had  any  attendant,  and  whether 
she  took  the  letter. 

The  housekeeper  answered  both  these  questions  in  the 
affirmative.  “ Truly,  m.y  lord,”  she  continued,  ‘‘  I believe 
your  lordship  said  something  in  that  letter  which  pleased  her, 
for  she  smiled  on  opening  it,  and  said,  ‘ Well,  well,  this  is 
something  like  comfort.”  “ And  was  she  really  so  mean  ? ” 
he  was  on  the  point  of  asking,  but  he  timely  checked  a ques- 
tion which  was  springing  from  a heart  that  sickened  at  finding 
the  object  of  its  tenderest  affections  unworthy  in  every  respect 
of  possessing  them.  Every  idea  of  this  kind  soon  gave  way  to 
anxiety  on  her  account.  His  heart  misgave  him  at  her  under- 
taking so  long  a journey  under  the  protection  of  a common 
servant ; and,  unable  to  endure  his  apprehensions,  he  deter- 
mined instantly  to  pursue  and  see  her  safe  himself  to  the 
destined  port. 

The  woman,  who  had  hitherto  sat  in  the  chaise,  was  ordered 
to  return  home.  He  entered  it  with  eagerness,  and  promised 
liberally  to  reward  the  postilions  if  they  used  expedition.  They 
had  changed  horses  but  once  when  Lord  Mortimer  saw  Nich- 
olas approaching,  vdiom,  at  the  first  glance,  he  knew.  He 


286 


7'HE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


stopped  the  carriage,  and  called  out,  Where  have  you  left  Miss 
Fitzalan?’’  Faith,  my  lord,’^  cried  Nicholas,  instantly  stop- 
ping and  taking  off  his  hat,  in  very  good  company.  I left 
her  with  Colonel  Belgrave,  who  was  •’aiting,  by  appointment, 
on  the  road  for  her/^  Oh  ! horrible  infatuation  I said  Lord 
Mortimer^  that  nothing  can  snatch  her  from  the  arms  of  in- 
famyo’^ 

The  postilion  desired  to  know  whether  he  should  return  to 
London. 

Lord  Mortimer  hesitated,  and  at  last  desired  him  to  go  on 
according  to  his  first  directions.  He  resolved  to  proceed  to  Park 
gate  and  discover  whether  Amanda  had  returned  to  Ireland. 
They  had  not  proceeded  far  when  they  overtook  a travelling 
chaise.  As  Lord  Mortimer  passed,  he  looked  into  it,  and  be- 
held Amanda  reclined  on  the  bosom  of  Belgrave.  He  trembled 
universally,  closed  his  eyes,  and  sighed  out  the  name  of  the 
perfidious  Amanda.  When  they  had  got  some  way  before  the 
other  chaise,  he  desired  the  postilion  to  strike  off  into  another 
road,  which,  by  a circuit  of  a few  miles,  would  bring  them  back 
to  London.  Amanda,  it  was  evident,  had  put  herself  under  the 
protection  of  Belgrave,  and  to  know  whether  she  went  to  Ire- 
land was  now  of  little  consequence  to  him,  as  he  supposed  her 
unreclaimable.  But  how  impossible  to  describe  his  distress 
and  confusion  when  almost  the  first  object  he  beheld,  on  alight- 
ing in  St,  James’s  Square,  was  his  aunt.  Lady  Martha  Dormer, 
who,  in  compliance  wdth  his  urgent  request,  had  hastened  to 
London.  Had  a spectre  crossed  his  sight  he  could  not  have 
been  more  shocked. 

‘‘Well,  my  dear  Frederick,”  said  her  ladyship,  “you  see  I 
lost  no  time  in  obeying  your  wishes.  I have  flown  hither,  I 
may  indeed  say,  on  the  wings  of  love.  But  where  is  this  little 
divinity  of  thine  ? I long  to  have  a peep  at  her  goddess-ship.” 

Lord  Mortimer,  inexpressibly  shocked,  turned  to  the  window. 

“ I shall  see,  to  be  sure,”  cried  her  ladyship,  “ quite  a lit 
tie  paragon.  Positively,  Frederick,  I will  be  introduced  thir 
very  evening.”  “ My  dear  aunt,  my  dear  Lady  Martha,”  said 
Lord  Mortimer,  impatiently,  “ for  Heaven’s  sake  spare  me  ! ” 
“ But  tell  me,”  she  continued,  “ when  I shall  commence  this 
attack  upon  your  father’s  heart  ? ” “ Never  ! never  ! ” sighed 

Mortimer,  half  distracted.  “What ! you  suppose  ne  will  prove 
inflexible  ? But  I do  not  despair  of  convincing  you  to  the  con- 
trary. Tell  me,  Frederick,  when  the  little  charmer  is  to  be 
seen  ? ” “ Oh,  God  ! cried  Mortimer,  striking  his  forehead, 

§he  is  lost,”  said  he,  she  is  forever  1 ” 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBE  Y. 


287 

Lady  Martha  was  alarmed.  She  now,  for  the  first  time, 
r.oticed  the  wild  and  pallid  looks  of  her  nepheWo  Gracious 
Heaven  \ she  exclaimed,  what  is  the  matter  ? ’’ 

The  dreadful  explanation  Lord  Mortimer  now  found  him- 
self under  a necessity  of  giving.  The  shame  of  acknowledging 
he  was  so  deceiwjJ^  the  agony  he  suffered  from  that  deception, 
joined  to  the  excessive  agitation  and  fatigue  he  had  suffered 
the  preceding  night,  and  the  present  day,  so  powerfully  as- 
sailed him  at  this  moment,  that  his  senses  suddenly  gave  way 
and  he  actually  fainted  on  the  floor. 

What  a sight  for  the  tender  Lady  Martha  ! She  saw  some- 
thing dreadful  had  happened,  and  what  this  was  Lord  Morti- 
mer, as  soon  as  recovered,  informed  her. 

He  then  ired ' ? his  chamber.  He  could  neither  com 
verse  nor  bear  io  be  conversed  witho  His  fondest  hopes  were 
blasted,  nor  could  he  forego  the  sad  indulgence  of  mournino 
over  them  in  solitude.  He  felt  almost  convinced  that  the  holci 
Amanda  had  on  his  affections  could  not  be  withdrawn  ; he  had 
considered  her  as  scarcely  less  than  his  wife,  and  had  she  been 
really  such,  her  present  conduct  could  not  have  given  him  more 
anguish.  Had  she  been  snatched  from  him  by  the  hand  oi 
death  : had  she  been  wedded  to  a worthy  character,  he  could 
have  summoned  lortitude  to  his  aid ; but  to  find  her  the  prey 
of  a villain,  was  a stroke  too  horrible  to  bear,  at  least  for  a 
long  period,  with  patience. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

*•  And  let  a maid  thy  pity  share, 

# # # # 

V/ho  seeks  for  rest,  but  finds  despaii 
Companion  of  her  way.” — Goldsmith, 

Amanda  had  fainted  soon  after  Colonel  Belgrave  entered 
the  carriage,  and  she  was  reclining  on  his  bosom  in  a state  of 
insensibility  when  Lord  Mortimer  passed.  In  this  situation 
she  continued  till  they  had  gained  a solitary  road,  when  the 
carriage  stopped,  and  water,  procured  from  an  adjacent  cottage, 
being  sprinkled  on  her  face,  she  recovered ; but  either  by 
arguments  or  actions  she  was  now  unable  to  oppose  Belgrave. 
She  felt  a weakness  through  her  whole  frame,  which  she  be- 


288 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  . 


lieved  the  forerunner  of  death,  and  a languor  on  her  mind  that 
almost  deprived  it  of  the  perception  of  misery. 

The  refreshments  offered  to  her  she  could  only  refuse  by  a 
motion  of  her  hand ; and  in  this  manner  they  proceeded  till 
about  nine  o’clock  at  night,  when  they  entered  an  extensive 
wood,  in  the  very  centre  of  which  stood  Colonel  Belgrave’s 
mansion.  He  carried  Amanda  himself  into  it,  and  laid  her 
upon  a sofa  in  a large  parlor.  Some  female  domestics  ap- 
peared with  drops  and  cordials,  to  try  and  recover  her  from 
the  almost  lifeless  state  in  which  she  lay.  One  of  them  pre- 
sented a letter  to  the  colonel,  which  excited  no  little  perturba- 
tion in  his  mindo  It  came  express  to  inform  him  that  his  uncle, 
whose  estate  and  title  he  was  heir  to,  lay  at  the  point  of  death, 
and  that  his  presence  was  immediately  required. 

The  colonel  was  not  so  absolutely  engrossed  by  love  as  to 
be  incapable  of  attending  to  his  interest.  An  addition  of  for- 
tune was  extremely  agreeable,  as  his  affairs  were  somewhat 
deranged  ; and,  as  Amanda  was  not  in  a situation  at  present 
to  comply  with  any  overtures  he  should  make,  his  resolution 
was  immediately  formed  to  set  off  without  delay,  and  against 
his  return  he  trusted  Amanda  would  be  not  only  recovered, 
but  willing  to  accede  to  his  wishes. 

He  dismissed  the  woman  who  had  brought  her  a little  to 
herself,  and  taking  her  hand  informed  her  of  the  painful  neces- 
sity he  was  under  of  departing  for  a short  time.  He  also  men- 
tioned his  hopes,  that  on  his  return  he  should  have  no  obstacle 
thrown  in  the  way  of  his  happiness  by  her.  '^You  must  be 
sensible,  my  dear  Amanda,”  said  he,  with  coolness,  ^Hhat 
your  reputation  is  as  much  gone  as  if  you  had  complied  with 
my  wishes  ; since  it  is  sacrificed,  why  not  enjoy  the  advantages 
that  may,  that  will  certainly  attend  the  reality  of  that  sacrifice  ? ” 

Monster  ! ” cried  Amanda,  ‘‘  your  arts  may  have  destroyed 
my  fame,  but  my  innocence  bids  defiance  to  your  power.” 

Conquer  your  obstinacy,  Amanda,”  replied  he,  against  I 
return,  or  I shall  not  promise  but  what  I may  b^  at  last  irritated. 
As  you  will  have  no  occasion  for  money  here,  you  must 
excuse  me,  my  dear  creature,  if  I take  your  purse  into  my 
own  keeping.  My  domestics  may  be  faithful,  when  they  have 
no  inducement  to  the  contrary  ; but  no  bribery,  no  corruptiorA, 
you  know.”  He  then  very  deliberately  took  Amanda’s  purse 
and  watch  from  her  pocket,  and  deposited  C^em  in  his  own. 
He  had  already  given  directions  to  his  servants  concerning 
their  treatment  of  Amanda,  and  nov/  rrderea  them  to  carry 
her  to  a chamber,  and  make  her  take  some  refreshment 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


289 

Reflect,  Amanda,’’  said  he,  ere  she  retired,  on  your  pres- 
ent situation,  and  timely  estimate  the  advantages  I offer  to  your 
acceptance;  wealth,  pleasure,  the  attentions  of  a man  who 
adores  you,  are  not  to  be  despised.  Upon  my  soul  it  grieves 
me  to  leave  you,  but  the  joys  of  meeting  will,  I trust,  pay  the 
pangs  of  absence.” 

As  he  spoke,  he  attempted  to  embrace  her,  but  she  faintly 
shrieked,  and  shrunk  from  his  graspo  He  looked  provoked  ^ 
but  as  he  had  no  time  to  lose,  he  reserved  a declaration  of  hi» 
anger  for  another  opportunity,  and  directly  set  off  for  his  uncle’s. 

Amanda  was  supported  to  a chamber,  and  lay  down  in  he2 
clothes  on  a bed.  They  offered  her  bread  and  wine,  but  shw 
was  too  sick  to  touch  any.  To  remonstrate  with  the  insolent 
looking  creatures  who  surrounded  her  she  knew  would  be  un- 
availing, and  she  turned  her  face  on  the  pillow  to  stifle  her  sobs, 
as  she  believed  they  would  exult  in  her  distress.  Death  she 
thought  approaching,  and  the  idea  of  being  separated  from,  the 
dear  objects  who  would  have  soothed  its  last  pangs,  was  dread- 
ful. Her  father  in  aguny,  and  Oscar,  her  beloved  brother,  be- 
wailing her  with  tears  of  sorrow,  were  the  images  fancy  pre- 
sented to  her  view. 

“ Dear  objects  of  my  love,”  she  softly  exclaimed,  Amanda 
shall  no  more  behold  you,  but  her  last  sigh  will  be  breathed  for 
you.  Ah  ! why,  why,”  she  cried,  “ did  I suffer  myself  to  be 
separated  from  my  father  ? ” 

A young  woman  leaned  over  Amanda,  and  surveyed  her 
with  the  most  malignant  scrutiny.  She  .was  daughter  to  Bel- 
grave’s  steward,  and  neither  she  nor  her  father  possessed  suffi- 
cient virtue  to  make  them  reject  the  offers  Belgrave  made  them 
on  her  account.  His  attachment  to  her  was  violent,  but  tran- 
sient, and  in  the  height  of  it  he  made  her  mistress  of  the  man- 
sion she  now  occupied,  which  character  she  maintained  with 
tyrannic  sway  over  the  rest  of  the  domestics.  Belgrave  was 
really  ignorant  of  the  violence  of  her  temper,  and  had  no  idea 
she  would  dare  dispute  his  inclinations,  or  disobey  his  orders. 
He  believed  she  would  be  subservient  to  both,  and  from  this 
belief,  gave  Amanda  particularly  into  her  charge. 

But  scarcely  had  he  departed,  ere  she  swore,  that  let  the 
consequence  be  what  it  would,  the  vile  wretch  he  had  brought 
into  the  house  to  insult  her  should  never  remain  in  it.  She 
shall  tramp,”  cried  she,  though  I follow  her  myself  when  he 
returns ; for  such  a little  hussey  shall  never  triumph  over  me.” 

The  servants,  ignorant  and  timorous,  did  not  attempt  to  op- 
pose her. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


ago 

Come,  madam/’  said  she,  suddenly  seizing  Amanda’s  arm, 
md  pulling  her  from  the  pillow,  “ have  done  with  these  languish- 
ing airs,  and  march.”  “ What  do  you  mean  ? ” cried  Amanda, 
trembling  at  her  med  countenance^  ‘'Why,  I mean  you 
shall  quit  this  .house  airectiy;  and  I wonder  Colonel  Eelgrave 
could  have  tha  assurance  to  bring  such  a creator^  as  you  *nto  it,’^ 
“ You  mistake,  indeed,”  said  Amanda  ; treachery,  not  inclina- 
tion^  brought  me  into  it,  and  I am  not  what  you  supposCo  If, 
as  you  say,  you  will  allow  me  to  depart,  I shall  ever  regard  you 
as  my  friend  ; and  in  ever/ prayer  I offer  up  to  Heaven  for  my- 
self, you  shall  be  remembered.”  Oh,  dear!  but  you  shall  not 
impose  upon  me  so  easily,  ‘‘  Come,”  continued  she,  turning  to 
a maid,  “ and  help  me  to  conduct  this  fine  lady  to  the  hall  doofo” 
“ Gracious  Heaven  ! ” said  Amanda,  who  by  this  time  was 
taken,  or  rather  dragged  from  the  bed,  what  are  you  about 
doing  with  me  ? Though  I rejoice  to  quit  the  house,  yet  surely, 
surely,”  she  cried,  and  her  soul  recoiled  at  the  idea,  ‘‘without 
a guide  at  this  hour  of  the  night,  you  will  not  turn  me  from  it,” 

She  then  mentioned  Colonel  Eelgrave’s  having  deprived  her 
of  her  purse  and  watch,  and  besought  the  woman  in  the  most 
pathetic  terms,  to  supply  her  with  a small  sum,  which  she  sol- 
emnly assured  her  should  be  returned  as  soon  as  she  reached 
her  friends  ; and  ended  with  saying,  she  should  depart  with 
gratitude  and  joy  if  she  complied  with  her  request,  and  allowed 
^ome  one  to  guide  her  to  a place  where  she  might  procure  a 
carriage.” 

“ Such  madams  as  you,”  replied  the  imperious  woman,  “ are 
never  at  a loss  for  means  of  procuring  money,  or  a place  to  go 
tOo  I see  through  your  art  well  enough  ; you  want  me  to  pity 
you,  that  I may  let  you  stay  till  your  colonel  returns.  But  who 
would  be  fool  then,  I wonder  'I  The  tables,  I warrant,  would 
soon  be  turned  upon  me.  No,  no  r out  you  go  this  moment.” 
So  saying,  she  rudely  seized  Amanda,  and  assisted  by  another 
woman,  hurried  her  down  stairs,  and  out  of  the  house  directly  : 
they  carried  her  tp  an  intricate  part  of  wood,  and  then  ran  back, 
leaving  the  helpless  mourner  leaning  against  a tree. 

Amanda  looked  around  hen  Dark  and  awful  were  the 
shades  of  the  wood.  No  light  appeared  but  what  came  from  a 
few  wandering  stars,  which  only  served  to  render  darkness 
visible.  “ Have  mercy  upon  me.  Heaven  1 ” groaned  Amanda, 
as  she  felt  herself  sinking  to  the  earth.  The  cold  acted  as  a 
kind  of  restorative,  and  almost  immediately  revived  her.  She 
rested  her  head  against  a little  bank,  and  as  she  thus  reclined, 
tender  sadness  pervaded  her  soul  at  the  idea  of  her  father’s 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


291 


sorrow  when  he  heard  of  her  fate.  “ When  he  hears/^  cried 
she,  that  I was  driven  from  the  house,  as  unworthy  of  pity  or 
protection  from  any  being,  that  his  Amanda,  whom  he  cherished 
in  his  bosom,  as  the  darling  of  his  age,  was  denied  the  pity  he 
would  have  shown  the  greatest  wretch  that  crawls  upon  the 
earth,  and  that  she  perished  without  shelter,  it  will  break  his 
heart  entirely.  Poor  Oscar,  too — alas  1 I shall  be  a source  of 
wretchedness  to  both.  Will  Lord  Mortimer  lament  when  he 
hears  of  my  fate  ? Alas  ! I cannot  believe  that  he  will.  He 
that  could  leave  me  in  the  arms  of  insensibility,  and  so  readily 
believe  ill  of  me,  must  have  a heart  steeled  against  compassion 
for  my  sufferings.  But  my  unhappy  father  and  brother  will 
never  doubt  my  innocence,  and  by  them  I shall  be  tenderly  and 
truly  mourned.’^ 

The  idea  of  their  sufferings  at  last  recalled  her  wandering 
thoughts,  and  pity  for  those  sufferings  made  her  endeavor  to 
support  her  own,  that  she  might  be  able  to  make  some  efforts 
for  preserving  a life  so  precious  to  them.  Besides,  as  she  re- 
flected, she  could  not  but  attribute  her  expulsion  from  the  house 
of  infamy  to  the  immediate  interposition  of  Providence  in  her 
favor  : and  whilst  her  heart  swelled  with  gratitude  at  the  idea,  her 
fortitude  gradually  returned.  She  arose,  but  the  vigor  of  her 
nerves  was  not  equal  to  the  ardor  of  her  intentions.  She  walked 
on,  and  as  she  proceeded,  the  gloom  grew  more  profound,  the 
paths  were  intricate,  and  her  progress  was  often  impeded  by 
the  roots  of  trees,  and  the  branches  that  grew  about  them. 
After,  wandering  about  a considerable  time,  she  at  last  began 
to  think  that,  instead  of  gaining  the  skirts,  she  had  penetrated 
into  the  very  centre  of  the  wood,  and  that  to  quit  it  till  morn- 
ing would  be  impossible.  Yielding  to  this  idea,  or  rather  to 
her  excessive  weariness,  she  was  seeking  for  a place  to  sit  down 
on,  when  a faint  light  glimmered  before  her.  She  instantly 
darted  through  the  path  from  whence  it  gleamed,  and  found 
herself  at  the  extremity  of  the  wood,  and  that  the  light  pro- 
ceeded from  a small  hamlet  contiguous  to  it.  Thither  she 
walked,  as  fast  as  her  trembling  limbs  would  carry  her.  A pro- 
found stillness  reigned  around,  only  interrupted  by  the  hoarse 
and  hollow  barking  of  some  distant  dogs,  which,  in  such  an 
hour,  had  something  particularly  solemn  in  it.  The  stillness, 
and  sudden  disappearance  of  lights  from  various  windows, 
convinced  Amanda  that  every  cottage  was  closed  for  the 
night ; and  were  they  open,’’  said  she,  I perhaps  should 
be  denied  access  to  any,  deprived  as  I am  of  the  mea.nf 
rewarding  kindness.''  She  shuddered  at  the  idea  of 


292 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


ing  a night  unsheltered.  “ It  is  now,  indeed,’^  said  she,  **  I 
really  know  what  it  is  to  feel  for  the  houseless  children  of 
want.”  She  moved  softly  along.  The  echo  of  her  own  steps 
alarmed  her.  She  had  nearly  reached  the  end  of  the  hamlet 
when,  before  a neat  cottage,  divided  from  the  others  by  a 
clump  of  old  trees,  she  saw  a venerable  man,  who  might  well  have 
passed  for  an  ancient  hermit.  His  gray  locks  thinly  shaded  his 
forehead  ; an  expression  of  deep  and  pensive  thought  was 
visible  in  his  countenance  ; his  arms  were  folded  on  his  breast, 
and  his  eyes  were  raised  with  a tender  melancholy  to  heaven, 
as  if  that  heaven  he  contemplated  was  now  the  abode  of  some 
kindred  and  lamented  spirit.  Surely  such  a being,  thought  she; 
will  pity  me.  She  approached  him — stood  close  to  him,  yet  was 
unnoticed.  Thrice  she  attempted  to  speak,  and  thrice  her  heart 
failed  her.  At  last  she  summoned  all  her  courage  to  her  aid, 

and  faintly  articulated,  Pity ,”  she  could  add  no  more,  but 

fainted  at  his  feet.  The  strangePs  mind  was  fraught  with  all 
the  benevolence  his  countenance  depictured.  The  transient 
glance  he  had  caught  of  Amanda  interested  every  tender  feel- 
ing. He  called  to  his  servant,  an  elderly  woman,  his  only 
companion  in  the  cottage,  to  assist  him  in  conveying  her  in. 
This  woman's  heart  was  as  tender  as  her  master’s,  and  the 
youth,  the  beauty,  and  forlorn  situation  of  Amanda,  equally 
excited  their  wonder  and  pity.  It  was  many  minutes  ere  she 
opened  her  eyes,  and  when  she  did,  her  senses  were  quite  be- 
wildered. And  my  father  ! alas  I my  father,  I shall  never  more 
behold  him,”  was  all  she  could  articulate. 

She  was  supported  to  a small  chamber ; the  old  woman  un- 
dressed her,  put  her  to  bed,  and  sat  up  with  her  the  remainder 
of  the  night.  Amanda  often  started ; she  raved  continually  of 
Belgrave,  the  author  of  her  woes,  and’ betrayed  the  strongest 
horror.  ^‘The  wound  he  had  inflicted  on  her  heart,”  she  said, 
the  hand  of  death  could  only  heal.”  She  mentioned  the 
cruelty  of  the  marchioness,  called  upon  her  father  to  save  her 
from  destruction,  and  reproached  Mortimer  for  aiding  to  over- 
whelm her  in  disgrace.  She  continued  in  this  situation  three 
days,  during  which  the  old  man  and  his  faithful  servant  watched 
her  with  unrernitted  attention.  A neighboring  apothecary  was 
summoned  to  her  aid,  and  a girl  from  one  of  the  cottages  pro- 
cured to  sit  up  with  her  at  night.  The  old  man  frequently  knelt 
by  the  bedside,  watching  with  anxiety  for  a favorable  symptom. 
Her  incoherent  expressions  pierced  him  to  the  heart : he  felt, 
from  mournful  sympathy,  for  the  father  she  so  pathetically 
mentioned,  and  invoked  Heaven  to  restore  her  to  him. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  293 

The  afternoon  of  the  third  day,  Amanda,  after  a long  slum- 
ber, awoke,  perfectly  restored  to  her  senses  ; it  was  many 
minutes,  however,  after  her  awaking,  ere  she  recollected  all  the 
circumstances  that  had  caused  her  present  situation.  She  at 
last  opened  the  curtain,  and  perceived  the  old  woman,  whom 
v/e  shall  hereafter  call  Eleanor,  seated  by  the  bedside. 

I fear,^^  said  she,  with  a languid  smile,  ‘‘  I have  been  the 
occasion  of  a great  deal  of  trouble.’’  No,  no,”  replied  the 
kind  Eleanor,  delighted  to  hear  her  speak  so  calmly,  and  drav/- 
ing  back  a little  of  the  curtain  at  the  same  time  to  observe  her 
.ooks. 

Amanda  inquired  how  long  she  had  been  ill.  Eleanor  in- 
formed her,  and  added,  “ Heaven,  my  dear  child,  was  kind  to 
you,  in  throwing  you  in  my  master’s  way,  who  delights  in  be- 
friending the  helpless.”  “ Heaven  will  reward  him,”  exclaimed 
Amanda. 

The  chamber  was  gloomy ; she  requested  one  of  the  shutters 
might  be  opened.  Eleanor  complied  with  her  desire,  and  a ray 
of  the  declining  sun  darting  through  the  casement,  cheered  her 
pensive  heart.  She  perfectly  remembered  the  venerable  figure 
she  had  beheld  on  the  threshold  of  the  cottage,  and  was  im- 
patient to  express  her  gratitude  to  him.  The  next  day,  she 
trusted,  would  give  her  an  opportunity  cf  doing  so,  as  she  then 
resolved,  if  possible,  to  risOo  The  wish  of  her  soul  was  to  be 
with  her  father  ere  he  could  receive  any  intimation  of  wEat  had 
happened.  She  resolved  to  communicate  to  her  benevolent 
host  the  incidents  which  had  placed  her  in  such  a situation  ; and 
she  flattered  herself,  on  hearing  them,  he  would  accommodate 
her  with  the  means  of  returning  to  Ireland  : if  unable  (unwilling 
she  could  not  think  she  should  find  him)  to  do  this,  she  then 
intended  writing  to  her  father.  This  measure,  however,  she 
fervently  trusted,  she  should  have  no  occasion  to  take,  as  she 
well  knew  the  shock  such  a letter  would  give  him. 

Contrary  to  the  inclination  of  Eleanor,  she  rose  the  next 
day,  and,  as  soon  as  she  was  dressed,  sent  to  request  Mr.. 
Howeb's  company.  Eleanor  had  informed  her  of  her  master’s 
name.  The  chamber  was  on  a ground  fl.oor : before  the  win- 
dows were  a row  of  neat  while  cottages,  and  behind  them  rose 
a range  of  lofty  hills,  covered  to  the  very  summit  with  trees, 
now  just  bursting  into  verdure.  Before  the  cottage  ran  a clear 
murmuring  rivulet,  at  which  some  young  girls  were  washing 
clothes,  whilst  others  spread  them  upon  hedges,  and  all 
beguiled  their  labor  with  singing,  chatting,  and  laughing  to- 
gether. 


«94 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


^^Ah!  happy  creatures!’^  cried  Amanda,  ^‘screened  by 
your  native  hills,  you  know  nothing  of  the  vices  or  miseries  of 
the  great  world  : no  snares  lurk  beneath  the  flowery  paths  you 
tread,  to  wring  your  hearts  with  anguish,  and  nip  the  early 
blossoms  of  your  youth/' 

The  old  man  appeared,  and  interrupted  her  meditations. 
When  he  beheld  the  pale  face  of  Amanda,  beaming  with  angelic 
sweetness  ; when  he  saw  her  emaciated  hand  extended  towards 
him,  while  her  soft  voice  uttered  her  grateful  acknowledg- 
ments, his  emotions  could  not  be  suppressed  : he  pressed  her 
hand  between  his : tears  rolled  clown  the  furrows  of  his  face, 
and  he  exclaimed,  ‘‘  I thank  the  Almighty  for  reviving  this 
sweet  flower/' 

A deep  sob  from  Amanda  proved  how  much  he  had  affected 
her  feelings. 

He  was  alarmed,  and  hastily  endeavored  to  compose  his 
own,  out  of  regard  to  hers. 

When  a little  composed,  with  grateful  sweetness  she  con- 
tinued to  thank  him  for  his  kindness.  Pity,"  said  she,  ‘‘  is  a 
sweet  emotion  to  excite ; yet  from  you,  without  esteem,  it  would 
be  humiliating  ; and  esteem  I cannot  flatter  myself  with  ob- 
taining, till  I have  accounted  for  being  a wretched  wanderer." 
She  then  gave  a brief  account  of  her  father  and  the  events  of 
her  life. 

“Ah!  my  dear,"  cried  the  old  man,  as  she  finished  her 
narrative,  “ you  have  reason,  indeed,  to  regret  your  knowledge 
of  Belgrave  ; but  the  sorrow  he  has  occasioned  you,  I believe 
and  trust,  will  be  but  transient.  That  which  he  has  given  me, 
will  be  lasting  as  my  life.  You  look  astonished.  Alas ! but 
for  him,  I might  now  have  been  blessed  with  a daughter  as 
lovely  and  as  amiable  as  Fitzalan’s.  I see  you  are  too  delicate 
to  express  the  curiosity  my  words  have  inspired,  but  I shall  not 
hesitate  to  gratify  it.  My  relation  will  draw  the  tear  of  pity 
from  your  eye  ; but  the  sorrows  of  others  often  reconcile  us  to 
our  own." 


TJl£  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


CHAPTER  XXXL 


“ And  oft  as  ease  and  health  retire. 

To  breezy  lawn  or  forest-deep,^ 

The  friend  shall  view  yon  whitening  spire. 

And  ’mid  the  varied  landscape  weep  , 

But  thou  who  own’st  that  earthy  bed, 

Ah  I what  will  every  dirge  avail  ? 

Collins’s  Ode  on  Thomson. 

Many  years  are  now  elapsed  since  I took  up  my  residence 
in  this  sequestered  hamlet.  I retired  to  it  in  distaste  with  a 
world  whose  vices  had  robbed,  me  of  the  dearest  treasure  of  m.y 
heart  Two  children  cheered  my  solitude,  and  in  training  them 
up  to  virtue^  J.  lost  the  remembrance  of  half  my  cares  Mj 
son,  w'hen  qualified,  was  sent  to  Oxford,  as  a friend  had 
promised  to  provide  for  hin'»  in  the  church  ; but  my  daughter 
was  destined  to  retirement,  not  only  from  the  narrowness  of  my 
income,  but  from  a thorough  conviction  it  was  best  calculated 
to  insure  her  felicity.  Juliana  was  the  child  of  innocence  and 
content.  She  knew  of  no  greater  happiness  than  that  of  pro 
moting  mine,  of  no  pleasures  but  what  the  hamlet  could  afford, 
and  was  one  of  the  gayest,  as  well  as  the  loveliest,  of  its  daugh- 
ters. One  fatal  evening  I suffered  her  to  go,  with  some  of  her 
young  companions,  to  a rustic  ball,  given  by  the  parents  of  Bel- 
grave  to  their  tenants,  on  coming  down  to  Woodhouse,  from 
which  they  had  been  long  absent.  The  graces  of  my  child 
immediately  attracted  the  notice  of  their  soOo  Though  young- 
in  years,  he  was  already  a professed  libertine„  The  conduct  of 
his  father  had  set  him  an  example  of  dissipation  which  the 
volatility  of  his  own  disposition  too  readily  inclined  him  to  fol- 
low, His  heart  immediately  conceived  the  basest  schemes 
against  Juliana,  which  the  obscurity  of  her  situation  prompted 
him  to  think  might  readily  be  accornplishedo  From  this  period 
he  took  every  opportunity  of  throwing  himself  in  her  way.  My 
suspicions,  or  rather  my  fears,  were  soon  excited  ; for  I knew 
not  then  the  real  depravity  of  Belgrave ; but  I knew  that  an  at- 
tachment between  him  and  my  daughter  would  prove  a source 
of  uneasiness  to  both,  from  the  disparity  fortune  had  placed 
between  them.  My  task  in  convincing  Juliana  of  the  imprO' 
priety  of  encouraging  such  an  attachment  was  not  a difficult 
one.  But,  alas  ! I saw  the  conviction  was  attended  with  a pang, 
of  anguish,,  which  pierced  me  to  the  souk 


5^8  THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  . 

Belgrave,  from  the  assumed  softness  and  delicacy  of  hJs 
manners,  had  made  an  impression  on  her  heart  which  was  not 
tO  be  erased.  Every  effort,  however,  which  prudence  could 
suggest,  she  resolved  to  make,  and,  in  compliance  with  my 
wishes,  avoided  Belgrave.  This  conduct  soon  convinced  him 
it  would  be  a difficult  matter  to  lull  my  caution,  or  betray  her 
innocence.  And  finding  all  his  attempts  to  see,  or  convey  a 
letter  to  her,  ineffectual,  he  departed  with  his  parents  from 
Woodhouse. 

Juliana  heard  of  his  departure  with  a forced  smile  ; but  a 
starting  tear,  and  a colorless  cheek,  too  clearly  denoted  to  me 
the  state  of  her  mind.  I shall  not  attempt  to  describe  my 
sufferings  on  witnessing  hers.  With  my  pity  was  mixed  a de- 
gree of  veneration  for  that  virtue  which,  in  so  young  a mind, 
could  make  such  exertions  against  a passion  disapproved  of  by 
a parent.  , The  evening  of  his  departure,  no  longer  under  any 
restraint,  she  walked  o^ut  alone,  and  instinctively,  perhaps,  took 
the  road  to,  Woodhouse.  She  wandered  to  its  deepest  glooms, 
and  there  gave  way  to  emotions  which,  from  her  efforts  to  sup- 
press them,  were  become  almost  too  painful  to  support.  The 
gloom  of  the  wood  was  heightened  by  the  shades  of  evening, 
and  a solemn  stillness  reigned  around,  well  calculated  to  in- 
spire pensive  tenderness.  She  sighed  the  name  of  Belgrave  in 
tremulous  accents,  and  lamented  their  ever  having  met.  A 
sudden  rustling  among  the  trees  startled  her,  and  the  next  mo- 
ment she  beheld  him  at  her  feet,  exclaiming,  ‘‘We  have  met, 
vny  Juliana,  never  more  to  parto^' 

Surprise  and  confusion  so  overpowered  her  senses,  as  to 
render  her  for  some  time  unable  to  attend  to  his  raptures. 
When  she  grew  composed,  he  told  her  he  was  returned  to  make 
her  honorably  his  ; but  to  effect  this  intention,  a journey  from 
the  hamlet  was  requisite.  She  turned  pale  at  these  words,  and 
declared  she  never  would  consent  to  a clandestine  measure. 
This  declaration  did  not  discourage  Belgrave  ; he  knew  the  in- 
terest he  had  in  her  heart,  and  this  knowledge  gave  an  energy 
to  his  arguments,  which  gradually  undermined  the  resolution  of 
Juliana.  Already,  he  said,  she  had  made  a sufficient  sacrifice 
to  filial  duty;  surely  something  was  now  due  to  love  like  his, 
which,  on  her  account,  would  cheerfully  submit  to  innumerable 
difficulties.  As  he  was  under  age,  a journey  to  Scotland  was 
unavoidable,  be  said,  and  he  would  have  made  me  his  confidant 
on  the  occasion,  but  that  he  feared  my  scrupulous  delicacy 
would  have  opposed  his  intentions,  as  contrary  to  parental  au- 
thority. He  promised  Juliana  to  bring  her  back  to  the  ham- 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


297 


let  immediately  after  the  ceremony  ; in  short,  the  plausibility 
of  his  arguments,  the  tenderness  of  his  persuasions,  at  last 
produced  the  effect  he  wished,  and  he  received  a promise  from 
her  to  put  herself  under  his  protection  that  very  night. 

But  oh  ! how  impossible  to  describe  my  agonies  the  ensuing 
morning  when,  instead  of  my  child,  I found  a letter  in  her 
room  informing  me  of  her  elopement ; they  were  such  as  a fond 
parent,  trembling  for  the  fame  and  happiness  of  his  child,  may 
conceive.  My  senses  must  have  sunk  beneath  them  had  they 
long  continued ; but  Belgrave,  according  to  his  promise,  has- 
tened back  my  child  ; and  as  I sat  solitary  and  pensive  in  the 
apartment  she  so  often  had  enlivened,  I suddenly  beheld  her 
at  my  feet,  supported  by  Belgrave,  as  his  wife.  So  great  a 
transition  from  despair  to  comfort  was  almost  too  powerful  for 
me  to  support.  I asked  my  heart  was  its  present  happiness 
real  ; I knelt,  I received  my  child  in  my  arms  : in  those  feeble 
arms  I seemed  to  raise  her  v/ith  my  heart  to  Heaven  in  pious 
gratitude  for  her  returning  unsullied.  Yet,  when  my  first  tran- 
sports were  abated,  I could  not  help  regretting  her  ever  having 
consented  to  a clandestine  union.  I entreated  Belgrave  to 
write,  in  the  most  submissive  terms,  to  his  father.  He  prom- 
ised to  comply  with  my  entreaty,  yet  hinted  his  fears  that  his 
compliance  would  be  unattended  with  the  success  I hoped. 
He  requested,  if  this  should  be  the  case,  I would  allow  his 
wife  to  reside  in  the  cottage  till  he  was  of  age.  Oh,  how  pleas- 
ing a request  to  my  heart  1 a month  passed  away  in  happiness, 
only  allayed  by  not  hearing  from  his  father.  At  the  expiration 
of  that  time  he  declared  he  must  depart,  having  received  or- 
ders to  join  his  regiment,  but  promised  to  return  as  soon  as 
possible  ; he  also  promised  to  write,  but  a fortnight  elapsed . 
and  no  letter  arrived. 

Juliana  and  I grew  alarmed,  but  it  was  an  alarm  that  only 
proceeded  from  fears  of  his  being  ill.  We  were  sitting  one 
morning  at  breakfast,  when  the  stopping  of  a carnage  drew  us 
from  the  table. 

He  is  come  1 said  Juliana,  he  Is  come  ! and  she  flew 
to  open  the  door ; when,  instead  of  her  expected  Belgrave,  she 
beheld  his  father,  whose  dark  and  haughty  visage  proclaimed 
that  he  came  on  no  charitable  intent.  Alas  1 the  occasion  of 
his  visit  was  too  soon  explained  ; he  c^me  to  have  the  ties 
which  bound  his  son  to  Juliana  broken.  My  child,  on  hearing 
this,  with  firmness  declared,  that  she  was  convinced  any  scheme 
his  cruelty  might  devise  to  separate  them,  the  integrity,  as  well 
as  the  tenderness  of  his  son,  would  render  abortive. 


29S  the  children  of  the  abbey.' 

“ Be  not  too  confident  of  that,  young  lady,”  cried  he,  smil- 
ing maliciously.  He  then  proceeded  to  inform  her  that  Bel- 
grave,  so  beloved,  and  in  whose  integrity  she  so  much  confided, 
had  himself  authorized  his  intentions,  being  determined  to 
avail  himself  of  non-age,  to  have  the  marriage  broke. 

Juliana  could  hear  no  more ; she  sunk  fainting  on  the  bosom 
of  her  wretched  father.  Oh,  what  a situation  was  mine,  when, 
as  I clasped  her  wildly  to  my  heart  and  called  upon  her  to  re- 
revive, that  heart  whispered  me  it  was  cruelty  to  wish  she 
should ! Alas ! too  soon  she  did,  to  a keen  perception  of 
misery.  The  marriage  was  dissolved,  and  health  and  happi- 
ness fled  from  her  together  ; 3/et,  from  compassion  to  me,  I saw 
she  struggled  to  support  the  burden  of  existence.  Every  rem- 
edy which  had  a chance  of  prolonging  it,  I administered.  But, 
alas ! sorrow  was  rooted  in  her  heart,  and  it  was  only  its  re- 
moval, which  was  impossible,  that  could  have  effected  her  re- 
covery. Oh  ! how  often  have  I stolen  from  my  bed  to  the  door 
of  her  apartment,  trembling,  lest  I should  hear  the  last  groan 
escape  her  lips  ! How  often  have  I then  heard  her  deep  con- 
vulsive sobs,  and  reproached  myself  for  selfishness  at  the  mo- 
ment for  wishing  the  continuance  of  her  being,  which  was  only 
wishing  the  continuance  of  her  misery  ! Yes,  I have  then  said, 
I resign  her,  my  Creator,  unto  thee.  I resign  her  from  a cer- 
tainty, that  only  with  thee  she  can  enjoy  felicity.  But,  alas  ! 
in  a moment  frail  nature  has  triumphed  over  such  a resignation, 
and,  prostrate  on  the  ground,  I have  implored  heaven,  either  to 
spare  the  child,  or  take  the  father  along  with  her. 

She  saw  me  unusually  depressed  one  day,  and  proposed  a 
walk,  with  a hope  that  any  exertion  from  her  might  recruit  my 
spirits.  But  when  I saw  my  child,  in  the  very  bloom  of  life, 
unable  to  sustain  her  feeble  frame  ; when  I felt  her  leaning  on 
my  almost  nerveless  arm  for  support,  oh  ! how  intolerable  was 
the  anguish  that  rived  my  heart  f — in  vain,  by  soft  endearments, 
she  strove  to  mitigate  it.  I averted  my  face  and  wept.  She 
motioned  to  go  towards  Woodhouse  ; we  had  got  within  sight 
of  the  wood,  when  she  complained  of  fatigue,  and  sat  down. 
She  had  not  been  many  minutes  in  this  situation,  when  she  be- 
held, coming  from  the  wood,  Belgrave,  and  a young  girl  whom 
she  knew  to  be  the  steward's  daughter.  Tlie  familiar  manner 
in  which  they  appeared  conversing,  left  little  room  to  doubt  of 
the  footing  on  which  they  were.  The  hectic  glow  of  Juliana’s 
complexion  gave  place  to  a deadly  paleness.  She  arose  and 
returned  to  the  cottage  with  me  in  silence,  from  whence,  in  less 
than  a week,  she  was  borne  to  her  grave. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


299 

Eight  years,  continued  he,  after  a pause  of  some  minutes, 
have  elapsed  since  her  death,  yet  is  her  worth,  her  beauty,  and 
her  sufferings  still  fresh  in  the  remembrance  of  the  inhabitants 
of  the  hamlet.  In  mine,  oh  I Miss  Fitzalan  ! how  painfully, 
how  pleasingly,  do  they  still  exist!  No  noisome  weed  is 
allowed  to  intermingle  in  the  high  grass  which  has  overgrown 
her  grave,  at  the  head ' of  which  some  kind  hand  has  planted 
a rose-tree,  whose  roses  blossom,  bloom,  and  die  upon  the 
sacred  spot.  My  child  is  gone  before  me  to  that  earthly  bed, 
to  which  I hoped  she  would  have  smoothed  my  passage.  Every 
spot  in  and  about  the  cottage  continually  recall  her  to  my  view. 
The  ornaments  of  this  little  room  were  all  the  work  of  that 
hand,  long  since  mouldered  into  dust.  In  that  bed — he  stop- 
ped, he  groaned,  and  tears  burst  from  him — in  that  bed,  re- 
sumed he  (in  a few  minutes,  though  with  a broken  voice),  she 
Dreathed  her  last  sigh  ; in  that  spot  I knelt  and  received  the 
last  pressure  of  her  clay-cold  lips  1 Of  a calm  night,  when  all 
is  hushed  to  repose,  I love  to  contemplate  that  heaven,  to  whick 
I have  given  an  angel — an  angel  to  whom,  I hope,  shortly  to 
be  reunited;  without  such  a hope,  surely  of  all  men  breathing, 
I should  be  the  most  wretched  ! Oh  ! how  cruel  is  it  then,  in 
those,  who,  by  raising  doubts  of  an  hereafter,  attempt  to  de- 
stroy such  a hope  1 Ye  sons  of  error,  hide  the  impious  doubts 
within  your  hearts  ; nor  with  wanton  barbarity  endeavor  to  de- 
prive the  miserable  of  their  last  comfort.  When  this  world 
presents  nothing  but  a dreary  prospect,  how  cheering  to  the 
afflicted  to  reflect  on  that  future  one,  where  all  will  be  bright 
and  happy  ! When  we  mourn  over  the  lost  friends  of  our  ten- 
derest  affections,  oh ! how  consolatory  to  think  we  shall  be  re- 
united to  them  again  1 How  often  has  this  thought  suspended 
my  tears  and  stopped  my  sighs  1 Inspired  by  it  with  sudden 
joy,  often  have  I risen  from  the  cold  bed  where  Juliana  lies, 
and  exclaimed  : ‘‘  Oh  death  ! where  is  thy  sting  1 Oh  grave  ! 
where  is  thy  victory ! both  lost  in  the  certainty  of  again  be- 
holding my  child. 

Am.anda  shed  tears  of  soft  compassion  for  the  fate  of  Juli- 
ana, and  the  sorrows  of  her  father,  and  felt,  if  possible,  her 
gratitude  to  Heaven  increased,  for  preserving  her  from  the 
snares  of  such  a monster  of  deceit  and  barbarity  as  Belgrave. 

Howel  relieved  the  anxiety  she  labored  under  about  the 
means  of  returnihg  home,  by  assuring  her  he  would  not  only 
supply  her  with  a sum  sufficient  for  that  purpose,  but  see  her 
to  Parkgate  himself. 

His  name  struck  Amanda — it  recalled  to  remembrance  hei 


300 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  ' 

Welsh  mend.  She  inquired,  and  heard  that  the  young  and 
tender  curate  was  indeed  the  son  of  her  benefactor.  “The 
softness  of  Henry’s  disposition,”  said  his  father,  “particularly 
qualifies  him  for  the  sacred  function,  which  prevents  his  having 
occasion  to  mingle  in  the  concerns  of  the  great  world.  He 
writes  me  word  that  he  is  the  simple  shepherd  of  a simple 
flock.” 

One  day  was  all  Amanda  would  devote  to  the  purpose  of 
recruiting  her  strength.  Nothing  could  prevail  on  her  longer 
to  defer  her  journey.  A chaise  was  accordingly  procured,  into 
which,  at  the  first  dawn  of  day,  she  and  Howel  stepped,  fol- 
lowed by  the  blessings  of  the  affectionate  Eleanor,  who,  from 
her  own  wardrobe,  had  supplied  Amanda  with  a few  necessaries 
to  take  along  with  her.  The  church-yard  lay  about  a quarter 
of  a mile  from  the  hamlet.  It  was  only  divided  from  the  road 
by  a low  and  broken  wall.  Old  trees  shaded  the  grass-grown 
grave,  and  gave  a kind  of  solemn  gloominess  to  the  place. 

“ See,”  said  Howel,  suddenly  taking  Amanda’s  hand,  and 
letting  down  the  glass,  “ see  the  bed  where  Juliana  reposes.” 

The  grave  was  distinguished  by  the  rose-tree  at  its  head. 
The  morning  breeze  gently  agitated  the  high  and  luxuriant 
grass  which  covered  it.  Amanda  gazed  on  it  with  inexpressi- 
ble sadness,  but  the  emotions  it  excited  in  her  breast  she  en- 
deavored to  check,  in  pity  to  the  wretched  father,  who  ex- 
claimed, while  tears  trickled  down  his  pale  and  furrowed  cheeks, 
“There  lies  my  treasure.” 

She  tried  to  divert  him  from  his  sorrows  by  talking  of  his 
son.  She  described  his  little  residence,  which  he  had  never 
seen.  Thus,  by  recalling  to  his  recollection  the  blessings  he 
yet  possessed,  checking  his  anguish  for  those  he  had  lost. 

The  weakness  of  Amanda  would  not  allow  them  to  travel 
expeditiously.  They  slept  one  night  on  the  road,  and  the  next 
day,  to  her  great  joy,  arrived  at  Parkgate,  as  she  had  all  along 
dreaded  a pursuit  from  Belgrave.  A packet  was  to  sail' about 
four  o’clock  in  the  afternoon.  She  partook  of  a slight  repast 
with  her  benevolent  friend,  who  attended  her  to  the  boat,  and 
with  starting  tears  gave  and  received  an  adieu.  She  promised 
to  write  as  soon  as  she  reached  home,  and  assured  him  his  kind- 
ness would  never  be  obliterated  from  her  heart.  He  watched 
her  till  she  entered  the  ship,  then  returned  to  the  inn,  and  imme- 
diately set  off  for  the  hamlet,  with  a mind  somewhat  cheered 
by  the  consciousness  of  having  served  a fellow-creature 


rffE  CHILDREN  OF  7HE  ABBEY. 


iot 


CHAPTER  XXXIL 

“The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  mornj 
The  swallow  twittering  fi  om  its  straw  built  sned  • 

The  cock’s  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  honij 

No  more  shall  rouse  him  trom  his  lowly  bed,” — Grav. 

The  weakness  which  Amanda  felt  in  consequence  oi  her 
iate  illness,  and  the  excessive  sickness  she  always  suffered 
at  sea,  made  her  retire  to  bed  immediately  on  entering  the 
packet,  where  she  continued  till  the  evening  of  the  second  day, 
when,  about  five  o’clock,  she  was  landed  at  the  marine  hotel. 
She  directly  requested  the  waiter  to  procure  her  a messenger 
to  go  into  town,  which  being  done^  she  sent  to  engage  a place 
in  the  northern  mail-coach,  that  went  within  a few  miles  of 
Castle  Carberry.  If  a place  could  not  be  procured,  she  order- 
ed a chaise  might  be  hired,  that  would  immediately  set  out 
with  her,  as  the  nights  were  m_oonlight ; but  to  her  great  joy 
the  man  speedily  returned  and  informed  her  he  had  secured  a 
seat  in  the  coach,  which  she  thought  a much  safer  mode  of 
travelling  for  her  than  in  a hired  carriage  without  any  attend- 
ant. She  took  some  slight  refreshment,  and  then  proceeded  to 
the  mail  hotel,  from  whence,  at  eleven  o’clock,  she  set  out  in 
company  with  an  old  gentleman^  who  very  composedly  put  on 
a large  woollen  nightcap,  buttoned  up  his  great  coat,  and  fell 
into  a profound  sleep.  He  was,  perhaps,  just  such  a kind 
of  companion  as  Amanda  desired,  as  he  neither  teased  hei 
v/ith  insipid  conversation  or  impertinent  questions,  but  left  hei 
undisturbed  to  indulge  her  meditations  during  the  journey. 
The  second  evening,  about  eight  o’clock,  she  arrived  at  th^ 
nearest  town  to  Castl'e  Carberry,  for  which  she  directly  pro- 
cured a chaise  and  set  off.  Her  spirits  were  painfully  agitated. 
She  dreaded  the  shock  her  father  would  receive  from  hearing 
of  her  sufferings,  which  it  would  be  impossible  to  conceal  from 
him.  She  trembled  at  what  they  would  both  feel  on  the  ap^ 
preaching  interview.  Sometimes  she  feared  he  had  already 
heard  of  her  distress,  and  a gloomy  presage  rose  in  her  rnind  oi 
the  anguish  she  should  find  him  in  on  that  account.  Yet  again, 
when  she  reflected  on  ::ie  fortitude  he  had  hitherto  displayed 
in  his  trials,  under  the  present,  she  trusted,  he  would  not  lose 
it ; and  that  he  would  not  only  support  himself,  but  her,  and 


3^2 


TBE  CHILDREN  OF  7HF  AFi3BV, 


bind  up  those  wounds  in  her  heart  which  perfidy,  cruelty,  ana 
ingratitude  had  made.  And  oh  ! thought  she  to  herself,  when 
\ find  myself  again  in  his  arms,  no  temptation  shall  allure  me 
from  them — allure  me  into  a world  where  my  peace  and  fame 
have  already  suffered  such  a wreck.  Thus  alternately  fluctua- 
ting between  hope  and  fear,  Amanda  pursued  the  road  to  Castle 
Carberry;  but  the  latter  sensation  was  predominant  in  her 
mind. 

The  uncommon  gloominess  of  the  evening  added  tc  her  de- 
jection— the  dark  and  lowering  clouds  threatened  a violent 
storm — already  a shower  of  sleet  and  rain  was  falling,  and 
everything  looked  cold  and  cheerless,  Amanda  thought  the 
cabins  infinitely  more  wretched  than  when  she  had  first  seen 
them.  Many  of  their  miserable  inhabitants  were  now  gathering 
their  little  flocks  together,  and  driving  them  under  shelter  from 
the  coming  storm.  The  laborers  were  seen  hastening  to  their 
respective  homes,  whilst  the  ploughboy,  with  a low  and  melan^ 
choly  whistle,  drove  his  slow  and  wearied  team  along.  Tho 
sea  looked  rough  and  black,  and  as  Amgnda  drew  nearer  to  it, 
she  heard  it  breaking  with  fury  against  the  rocks.  She  felt 
herself  extremely  ill.  She  had  left  the  hamlet  ere  her  fever 
was  subdued,  and  fatigue,  joined  to  want  of  rest,  now  brought 
it  back  with  all  its  former  violence.  She  longed  for  rest  and 
quiet,  and  trusted  and  believed  these  would  conquer  her  malady. 

The  chaise  stopped  at  the  entrance  of  the  lawn,  as  she  wished 
to  have  her  father  prepared  for  her  arrival  by  one  of  the  ser- 
vants. On  alighting  from  it,  it  returned  to  town,  and  she  struck 
into  the  grove,  and  by  a winding  path  reached  the  castle.  Her 
limbs  trembled,  and  she  knocked  with  an  unsteady  hand  at  the 
door.  The  sound  wac.  awfully  .everberated  through  the  build- 
ing. Some  minutes  elapsed  and  no  being  appeared,  neither 
could  she  perceive  a ray  of  light  from  any  of  the  windows. 
The  V/inc  blew  the  rain  directly  in  her  face,  and  her  weakness 
increased,  s ; that  she  could  scarcely  stand.  She  recollected 
small  door  at  the  back  of  the  castle,  which  led  to  the  apaiT 
ments  appropriated  to  the  domestics.  She  waiaed  feebly  to 
this,  to  try  and  gain  admittance,  and  found  it  open.  She  pro- 
ceeded through  a long  dark  passage,  on  each  side  of  which 
were  small  rooms,  till  she  came  to  the  kitchen.  Here  she  found 
the  old  woman  sitting  (to  whom  the  care  of  the  castle  was 
usually  consigned),  before  a large  turf  fire.  On  hearing  a foot 
step,  she  looked  behind,  and  when  she  saw  Amanda,  started, 
screamed,  and  betrayed  symptoms  oi  the  utmost  terror. 

Are  you  frightened  at  seeing  me,  my  good  Kate ! cried 


th£  children  of  the  abbey. 


30i 

Amanda.  Oh,  holy  Virgin ! replied  Kate,  crossing  her 
breast,  “ one  could  not  help  being  frightened,  to  have  a body 
eteal  unawares  upon  them.’’ 

‘‘  My  father  is  well,  I hope  ? said  Amanda. 

‘‘ Alack-a-day,”  cried  Kate,  ^‘the  poor  dear  captain  has 
gone  through  a sea  of  troubles  since  you  went  away.”  ‘‘  Is  he 
ill.?”  exclaimed  Amanda.  “Ill,  ay,  and  the  Lord  knows  he 
has  reason  enough  to  be  ill.  But,  my  dear  jewel,  do  you  know 
nothing  at  all  of  what  has  happened  at  the  castle  since  you 
went  away  .?  ” “ No,  nothing  in  the  world.”  “ Heaven  help 

you,  then,”  said  Kate ; “ but,  my  dear  soul,  sit  down  upon  this 
little  stool,  and  warm  yourself  before  the  fire,  for  you  look  pale 
and  cold,  and  I will  tell  you  all  about  it.  You  must  know, 
about  three  weeks  ago,  my  Johnaten  brought  the  captain  a 
letter  from  the  post-office  ; he  knew  by  the  mark  it  was  a letter 
from  England,  and  so,  when  he  co'mes  into  the  kitchen  to  me, 

‘ Katie,’  says  he,  ‘ the  captain  has  got  something  now  to  cheer 
his  spirits,  for  he  has  heard  from  miss,  I am  sure.’  So,  to  be 
sure,  I said  I was  glad  of  it,  for,  you  must  know,  my  dear,  he 
was  low  in  spirits,  and  peaking,  as  one  may  say,  for  a few  days 
before.  Well,  it  was  always  my  custom,  when  he  got  a letter 
from  England,  to  go  to  him  as  soon  as  I thought  he  had  read 
it,  and  ask  about  you  ; so  I put  on  a clean  apron,  and  up  I goes 
to  the  parlor,  and  I opened  the  door,  and  walked  in.  Well,  sir, 
says  I,  I hope  there  is  good  news  from  miss  ? 

“ The  captain  was  sitting  with  the  letter  open  before  him 
on  a table  ; he  had  a handkerchief  to  his  eyes,  but  when  I 
spoke  he  took  it  down,  anti  I saw  his  face,  which  generally 
looked  so  pale,  now  quite  flushed. 

“ ^ This  letter,  my  good  Kate,’  says  he,  ‘ is  not  from  my 
daughter,  but  I am  glad  you  are  come,  for  I wanted  to  speak  to 
you.  I am  going  to  leave  the  castle,  and  I want  you  to  look  over 
all  the  things,  and  see  they  are  in  the  same  state  as  when  I 
came  to  it.  I shall  then  settle  with  the  servants  I hired,  and 
discharge  them.’  I was  struck  all  of  a heap.  The  Lord  forbid 
you  should  be  going  to  leave  us,  sir,  says  I. 

“ The  captain  got  up  — he  walked  to  the  window  — he 
sighed  heavily,  and  I saw  a tear  upon  his  cheek.  He  spoke  to 
me  again,  and  begged  I would  do  as  he  had  desired  me.  So, 
with  a heavy  heart,  I went  and  told  my  Johnaten  the  sad  tid- 
ings, who  was  as  sorry  as  myself,  for  he  loved  the  captain 
dearly,  not  only  from  his  being  so  mild  a gentleman,  but  be- 
cause he  was  a soldier,  as  he  himself  had  been  in  his  youth — and 
H soldier  has  always  a love  for  one  of  his  doth.  And  Johnaten 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


304 

had  often  said  he  knew  the  captain  in  America,  and  that  he 
was  a brave  officer  and  a real  gentleman. 

Well,  the  captain  came  out  to  us,  and  said  he  was  to  be 
Lord  Cherbury’s  agent  no  longer.  And  being  a good  penman, 
he  settled  all  his  own  accounts  and  the  servants  in  the  course 
of  the  day,  and  discharged  them,  giving  them  both  characters, 
which  I warrant  will  soon  get  them  good  places  again.  Well, 
he  said  he  must  set  off  for  England  the  next  day.  So  every- 
thing was  got  ready ; but  in  the  middle  of  the  night  he  was 
seized  with  spasms  in  his  stomach.  He  thought  himself  dying, 
and  at  last  rung  the  bell ; and  as  good  luck  would  have  it,  my 
Johnaten  heard  it,  and  went  up  to  him  directly.  Had  he  been 
without  relief  much  longer,  I think  he  would  have  died.  John- 
aten called  me  up.  I had  a choice  bottle  of  old  brandy  lying 
by  me,  so  I soon  blew  up  a fire,  and  heating  a cup  of  it,  gave  it 
to  him  directly.  He  grew  a little  easier,  but  was  too  bad  in  the 
morning  to  think  of  going  on  his  journey,  which  grieved  him 
sadly.  He  got  up,  however,  and  wrote  a large  packet,  which 
he  sent  by  Johnaten  to  the  post-office  ; packed  up  some  things 
m a trunk,  and  put  his  seal  upon  his  desk.  He  said  he  would 
not  stay  in  the  castle  on  any  account,  so  he  went  out  as  soon 
as  Johnaten  came  back  from  the  post-office,  leaning  upoii  his 
arm,  and'  got  a little  lodging  at  Thady  Byrne’s  cabin.”  “ Mer- 
ciful heaven ! ” exclaimed  the  agonized  and  almost  fainting 
Amanda,  “ support  and  strengthen  me  in  this  trying  hour  ! en- 
able me  to  comfort  my  unfortunate  father  ; preserve  me  from 
sinking,  that  I may  endeavor  to  assist  him.”  Tears  accompanied 
this  fervent  ejaculation,  and  her  voice  was  lost  in  sobs. 

‘‘ Alack-a-day,”  said  the  good-natured  Kate,  ‘‘now  don’t 
take  it  so  sadly  to  heart,  my  jewel ; all  is  not  lost  that  is  in 
danger,  and  there  is  as  good  fish  in  the  sea  as  ever  were  caught 
and  what  though  this  is  a stormy  night,  to-morrow  may  be  a 
fine  day.  Why,  the  very  first  sight  of  you  will  do  the  captain 
good.  Come,  cheer  up  ; 1 will  give  you  some  nice  hot  potatoes 
for  your  supper,  for  you  see  the  pot  is  just  boiling,  and  some 
fresh-churned  buttermilk  ; and  by  the  time  you  have  eaten  it, 
Johnaten  perhaps  may  come  back — he  is  gone  to  town  to  get 
some  beef  for  our  Sunday  dinner — and  then  I will  go  with  you 
tc  Thady’s  myself.” 

“ No,  no,”  cried  Amanda,  “ every  minute  I now  stay  from 
my  father  seems  an  age.  Too  long  has  he  been  neglected — too 
long  without  a friend  to  soothe  or  attend  him.  Oh  grant,  gra- 
cious Heaven  ! grant,”  raising  her  clasped  hands,  “ that  I may 
^ot  have  returned  too  late  to  bo  ©f  use  to  him  1 ” 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


305 


Kate  pressed  her  to  stay  for  Johnaten’s  return;  but  the 
agony  of  suspense  she  endured  till  she  saw  her  father,  made 
her  regardless  of  walking  alone,  though  the  hour  was  late,  dark, 
and  tempestuous.  Kate,  finding  her  entreaties  vain,  attended 
her  to  the  door,  and  assured  her,  if  Johnaten  returned  soon, 
she  would  go  over  herself  to  the  cabin,  and  see  if  she  could 
do  anything  for  her.  Amanda  pressed  her  hand,  but  was  unable 
to  speak.  Ill,  weak,  and  dispirited,  she  had  flattered  herself, 
on  returning  to  her  father,  she  would  receive  relief,  support, 
and  consolation  ; instead  of  which,  heart-broken  as  she  was, 
she  now  found  she  mast  give,  or  at  least  attempt  giving  them  - 
herself.  She  had  before  experienced  distress,  but  the  actual 
pressure  of  poverty  she  had  never  yet  felt.  Heretofore  she 
had  always  a comfortable  asylum  to  repair  to,  but  now  she  not 
only  found  herself  deprived  of  that,  but  of  all  means  of  procur- 
ing one,  or  even  the  necessaries  of  life.  But  if  she  mourned 
for  herself,  how  much  more  severely  did  she  mourn  for  her 
adored  father  ! Could  she  have  procured  him  comfort,  could 
she  in  any  degree  have  alleviated  his  situation,  the  horrors  of 
her  own  would  have  been  lessened  ; but  of  this  she  had  not  the 
slightest  means  or  prospect.  Her  father,  she  knew,  possessed 
the  agency  too  short  a time  to  be  enabled  to  save  any  money, 
particularly  as  he  was  indebted  to  Lord  Cherbury  ere  he  ob- 
tained it.  She  knew  of  no  being  to  vdiom  she  could  apply  in 
his  behalf.  Lord  Cherbury  was  the  only  person  on  whom  he 
depended  in  his  former  misfortunes  for  relief.  Llis  friendship, 
it  was  evident,  by  depriving  her  father  of  the  agency,  was  totally 
lost ; and  to  the  disconsolate  Amanda  no  way  appeared  of  es- 
caping “ want,  worldly  want,  that  hungry  meagre  fiend,  who 
was  already  close  at  their  heels,  and  followed  them  in  view.’’ 

The  violence  of  the  storm  had  increased,  but  it  was  slight 
in  comparison  of  that  which  agitated  the  bosom  of  Amanda. 
The  waves  dashed  with  a dreadful  noise  against  the  rocks,  and 
the  angry  spirit  of  the  waters  roared.  The  rain  fell  heavily,  and 
soon  soaked  through  the  thin  clothing  of  Amanda.  She  had 
about  half  a mile  to  walk,  through  a rugged  road,  bounded  on 
one  side  by  rocks,  and  on  the  other  by  wild  and  dreary  fields. 
She  knew  the  people  with  whom  her  father  lodged  ; they  were 
of  the  lowest  order,  and  on  her  first  arrival  at  Castle  Carberry, 
in  extreme  distress,  from  which  she  had  relieved  them.  She 
recollected  their  cabin  was  more  decent  than  many  others  she 
had  seen,  yet  still  a most  miserable  dwelling.  Wretched  as  it 
was,  she  was  glad  when  she  reached  it,  for  the  violence  of  the 
storm,  and  the  loneliness  of  the^^^ad,  had  terrified  her.  The 


3o6 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


cabin  was  but  a few  yards  from  the  beach.  There  were  two 
windows  in  front.  On  one  side  a pile  of  turf,  and  on  the  other 
a shed  for  the  pigs,  in  which  they  now  lay  grunting.  The 
shutters  were  fastened  on  the  windows,  to  prevent  their  being 
shaken  by  the  wind  ; but  through  the  crevices  Amanda  saw  a 
light,  which  convinced  her  the  inhabitants  were  not  yet  retired 
to  repose.  She  feared  her  suddenly  appearing  before  her 
father,  in  his  present  weak  state,  might  have  a dangerous  effect 
upon  him,  and  she  stood  before  the  cabin,  considering  how  she 
should  have  her  arrival  broke  to  him.  She  at  last  tapped 
■gently  at  the  door,  and  then  retreated  a few  steps  from  it, 
shivering  with  the  wet  and  cold.  In  the  beautiful  language  ol 
Solomon,  she  might  have  said,  Her  head  was  filled  with  dew, 
and  her  locks  with  the  drops  of  the  night.”  As  she  expected, 
the  door  was  almost  instantly  opened.  A boy  appeared,  whom 
she  knew  to  be  the  son  of  the  poor  people.  She  held  up  her 
handkerchief,  and  beckoned  him  to  her.  He  hesitated,  as  if 
afraid  to  advance,  till  she  called  him  softly  by  his  name.  This 
assured  him.  He  approached,  and  expressed  astonishment  at 
finding  she  was  the  person  who  called  him.  She  inquired  for 
her  father,  and  heard  he  was  ill,  and  then  asleep.  She  desired 
the  boy  to  enter  the  cabin  before  her,  and  caution  his  parents 
against  making  any  noise  that  might  disturb  him.  He  obeyed 
her,  and  she  followed  him. 

She  found  the  father  of  the  family  blowing  a turf  fire,  to 
hasten  the  boiling  of  a large  pot  of  potatoes.  Three  ragged 
children  were  sitting  before  it,  watching  impatiently  for  their 
supper.  Their  mother  was  spinning,  and  their  old  grandmother 
making  bread.  The  place  was  small  and  crowded.  Half  the 
family  slept  below,  and  the  other  half  upon  a loft,  to  which  they 
ascended  by  a ladder,  and  upon  which  a number  of  fowls  were 
now  familiarly  roosting,  cackling  at  every  noise  made  below. 
Fitzalan’s  room  was  divided  from  the  rest  of  the  cabin  by  a thin 
partition  of  wood  plastered  with  pictures  of  saints  and  crosses. 

‘‘  Save  you  kindly,  madam,”  said  the  mistress  of  the  maiv 
sion  to  Amanda,  on  entering  it. 

Byrne  got  up,  and,  with  many  scrapes,  offered  her  his  little 
stool  before  the  fire.  She  thanked  him,  and  accepted  it. 
His  wife,  notwithstanding  the  obligations  she  lay  under  to  her, 
seemed  to  think  as  much  respect  was  not  due  to  her  as  when 
mistress  of  the  castle,  and  therefore  never  left  her  seat,  or 
quitted  her  spinning,  on  her  entrance. 

‘‘My  poor  father  is  very  ill,”  said  Amanda.  “ Why,  im 
deed,  the  captain  has  had  a bad  time  of  it,”  answered- 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


507 


Byrne,  jogging  her  wheel.  ‘‘  To  be  sure  he  has  suffered  some 
little  change  j but  your  great  folks,  as  well  as  your  simple  folks, 
must  look  to  that  in  this  world ; and  I don’t  know  why  they 
should  not,  for  they  are  not  better  than  the  others,  I believe.” 

“ Arrah,  Norah,  now,”  said  Byrne,  ‘‘  I wonder  you  are  not 
^hy  of  speaking  so^to  the  poor  young  lady.” 

Amanda’s  heart  was  surcharged  with  grief — she  felt  suffo- 
cating. She  arose,  unlatched  the  door,  and  the  keen,  cold  air 
a little  revived  her.  Tears  burst  forth,  she  indulged  them 
freely,  and  they  lightened  the  load  on  her  heart.  She  asked 
for  a glass  of  water.  A glass  was  not  readily  to  be  procured. 
Byrne  told  her  she  had  better  take  a noggin  of  buttermilk. 
This  she  refused,  and  he  brought  her  one  of  water. 

She  now  conquered  the  reluctance  she  felt  to  speak  to  the 
uncouth  Mrs.  Byrne,  and  consulted  her  on  the  best  method  of 
mentioning  her  arrival  to  her  father.  Mrs.  Byrne  said  he  had 
been  in  bed  some  time,  but  his  sleep  was  often  interrupted,  and 
she  would  now  step  into  the  chamber,  and  try  if  he  was  awake. 
She  accordingly  did  so,  but  returned  in  a moment,  and  said  he 
still  slept. 

Amanda  wished  to  see  him  in  his  present  situation,  to  judge 
how  far  his  illness  had  affected  him  : she  stepped  softly  into 
the  room.  It  was  small  and  low,  lighted  by  a glimmering  rush- 
light,  and  a declining  fire.  The  furniture  was  poor  and  scanty  : 
in  one  corner  stood  a wooden  bedstead,  without  curtains  or 
any  shade,  and  on  this,  under  miserable  bedclothes,  lay  poor 
Fitzalan.  Amanda  shuddered,  as  she  looked  round  this  cham- 
ber of  wretchedness.  “ Oh  ! my  father,”  she  cried  to  herself, 
is  this  the  only  refuge  you  could  find  ? ” She  went  to  the  bed, 
she  leaned  over  it,  and  beheld  his  face.  It  was  deadly  pale 
and  emaciated  ; he  moaned  in  his  sleep,  as  if  his  mind  was 
dreadfully  oppressed.  Suddenl<y  he  began  to  move  ; he  sighed, 
“ Amanda,  my  dearest  child,  shall  I never  more  behold  you  ? ” 

Amanda  was  obliged  to  hasten  from  the  room,  to  give  vent 
to  her  emotions.  She  sobbed,  she  wrung  her  hands,  and  in 
the  bitterness  of  her  soul  exclaimed,  Alas ! alas  ! I have  re- 
turned too  late  to  save  him.” 

They  soon  after  heard  him  stir.  She  requested  Mrs.  Byrne 
to  go  in,  and  cautiously  inform  him  she  was  come.  She  com- 
plied, and  in  a moment  Amanda  heard  him  say,  ‘‘Thank 
Heaven!  my  darling  is  returned.”  “You  may  now  go  in, 
miss,”  said  Mrs.  Byrne,  coming  from  the  room.  Amanda  went 
in.  Her  father  was  raised  in  the  bed  ; his  arms  were  extended 
to  receive  her.  She  threw  herself  into  them.  Language  was 


THE^  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


508 

denied  them  both,  but  tears,  even  more  expressive  than  words, 
evinced  their  feelings.  Fitzalan  first  recovered  his  voice, 
‘‘  My  prayer,”  said  he,  “ is  granted.  Heaven  has  restored  my 
child  to  smooth  the  pillow  of  sickness,  and  soothe  the  last 
moments  of  existence.”  “ Oh,  my  father ! ” cried  Amanda, 
‘‘have  pity  on.  me,  and  mention  not  thojfe  moments.  Exert 
yourself  for  your  child  ; who  in  this  wide  world  has  she  but 
thee  to  comfort,  support  and  befriend  her  ? ” “ Indeed,”  said 

he,  “ for  your  sake  I wish  they  may  be  far  distant.”  He  held 
her  at  a little  distance  from  him  ; he  surveyed  her  face,  her 
form,  her  altered  complexion.  Her  fallen  features  appeared 
to  shock  him.  He  clasped  her  again  to  his  bosom,  “ The 
world,  my  child,  I fear,”  cried  he,  “ has  used  thee  most  un- 
kindly.” “Oh,  most  cruelly,”  sobbed  Amanda.  “Then,  my 
girl,  let  the  reflection  of  that  world,  where  innocence  and  vir- 
tue will  meet  a proper  reward,  console  you.  Here  they  are 
often  permitted  to  be  tried ; but  as  gold  is  tried  and  purified 
by  fire,  so  are  they  by  adversity.  ‘ Those  whom  God  loves. 
He  chastises.’  Let  this  idea  give  you  patience  and  fortitude 
under  every  trial.  Never  forego  your  dependence  on  Him, 
though  calamity  should  pursue  you  to  the  very  brink  of  the 
grave  ; but  be  comforted  by  the  assurance  He  has  given,  that 
those  who  meekly  bear  the  cross  He  lays  upon  them,  shall  be 
rewarded  ; that  He  will  wipe  away  all  tears  from  their  eyes, 
and  swallow  up  death  in  victory.  Though  a soldier  from  my 
youth,  and  accustomed  to  all  the  licentiousness  of  camps,  I never 
forgot  my  Creator ; and  I now  find  the  benefit  of  not  having 
done  so.  Now,  when  my  friends  desert,  the  world  frowns  upon 
me,  when  sickness  and  sorrow  have  overwhelmed  me,  religion 
stands  me  in  good  stead  ; consoles  me  for  what  I lost,  and 
softens  the  remembrance  of  the  past,  by  presenting  prospects 
of  future  brightness.” 

So  spoke  Fitzalan  the  pious  sentiments  of  his  soul,  and  they 
calmed  the  agitations  of  Amanda.  He  found  her  clothes  were 
wet,  and  insisted  on  her  changing  them  directly.  In  the  bundle 
the  good  Eleanor  gave  her,  was  a change  of  linen,  and  a cotton 
wrapper,  which  she  now  put  on,  in  a small  closet,  or  rather 
shed  adjoining  her  father’s  room.  A good  fire  was  made  up, 
a better  light  brought  in,  and  some  bread  and  wine  from  a 
small  cupboard  in  the  room,  which  contained  Fitzalan’s  things, 
set  before  her,  of  which  he  made  her  immediately  partake.  He 
took  a glass  of  wine  himself  from  her,  and  tried  to  cheer  her 
spirits.  “ He  had  been  daily  expecting  her  arrival,”  he  said, 
“and  had  had  a pallet  and  bedclothes  kept  airing  for  her.  He 


THE  CHILD R'EH  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


309 

hoped  she  would  not  be  dissatisfied  with  sleeping  in  the 
closet.’^  “Ah!  my  father/’ she  cried,  “can  you  ask  your 
daughter  such  a question  ? ” She  expressed  her  fears  of  im 
juring  him,  by  having  disturbed  his  repose.  “ No,”  he  said, 
“ it  was  a delightful  interruption.  It  was  a relief  from  pain 
and  anxiety.” 

Lord  Cherbury,  he  informed  her,  had  written  him  a letter, 
which  pierced  him  to  the  soul.  “ He  accused  me,”  said  he, 
“ of  endeavoring  to  promote  a marriage  between  you  and  Lord 
Mortimer  ; of  treacherously  trying  to  counteract  his  views,  and 
take  advantage  of  his  unsuspecting  friendship.  I was  shocked 
at  these  accusations.  But  how  excruciating  would  my  anguish 
have  been  had  I really  deserved  them.  I soon  determined  upon 
the  conduct  I should  adopt,  which  was  to  deny  the  justice  of 
his  charges,  and  resign  his  agency — for  any  further  dealings 
with  a man  who  could  think  me  capable  of  meanness  or  dupli- 
city, was  not  to  be  thought  of.  My  accounts  were  always  in 
a state  to  allow  me  to  resign  at  a moment’s  warning.  It  was 
my  intention  to  go  to  England,  put  them  into  Lord  Cherbury’s 
hands,  and  take  my  Amanda  from  a place  where  she  might 
meet  with  indignities  as  little  merited  by  her  as  those  her  father 
had  received  were  by  him.  A sudden  and  dreadful  disorder, 
which  I am  convinced  the  agitation  of  my  mind  brought  on, 
prevented  my  executing  this  intention.  I wrote,  however, 
to  his  lordship,  acquainting  him  with  my  resignation  of  his 
agency,  and  transmitting  my  accounts  and  arrears.  I sent  a 
letter  to  you  at  the  same  time,  with  a small  remittance  for  your 
immediate  return,  and  then  retired  from  the  castle , for  I felt  a 
longer  continuance  in  it  would  degrade  me  to  the  character  of 
a mean  dependant,  and  intimate  a hope  of  being  reinstated  in 
my  former  station  ; which,  should  Lord  Cherbury  now  offer,  I 
should  reject,  for  ignoble  must  be  the  mind  which  could  accept 
of  favors  from  those  who  doubted  its  integrity.  Against  such 
conduct  my  feelings  revolt.  Poverty,  to  me,  is  more  welcome 
than  independence,  when  purchased  with  the  loss  of  esteem.” 

Amanda  perceived  her  father  knew  nothing  of  her  suffer- 
ings, but  supposed  her  return  occasioned  by  his  letter.  She 
therefore  resolved,  if  possible,  not  to  undeceive  him,  at  least 
till  his  health  was  better.  The  night  was  far  advanced,  and 
her  father,  who  saw  her  ill,  and  almost  sinking  with  fatigue,  re- 
quested her  to  retire  to  rest.  She  accordingly  did.  Her  bed 
was  made  up  in  the  little  closet.  Mrs.  Byrne  assisted  her  to 
undress,  and  brought  her  a bowl  of  whey,  which,  she  trusted^ 
with  a comfortable  sleep,  would  carry  off  her  feverish  symp- 


310 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


toms,  and  enable  her  to  be  her  father’s  nurse.  Her  rest,  how- 
ever, was  far  from  being  comfortable.  It  was  broken  by  hor- 
rid dreams,  in  which  she  beheld  the  pale  and  emaciated  figure 
of  her  father  suffering  the  most  exquisite  tortures ; and  when 
she  started  from  these  dreams,  she  heard  his  deep  moans,  which 
were  like  daggers  going  through  her  heart.  She  arose  once 
or  twice,  supposing  him  in  pain,  but  when  she  went  to  his  bed 
she  found  him  asleep,  and  was  convinced,  from  that  circum- 
stance, his  pain  was  more  of  the  mental  than  the  •bodily  kind. 
She  felt  extremely  ill.  Her  bones  were  sore  from  the  violent 
motion  of  the  carriage,  and  she  fancied  rest  would  do  her  good ; 
but  when,  towards  morning,  she  was  inclined  to  take  some,  she 
was  completely  prevented  by  the  noise  the  children  made  on 
rising.  Fearful  of  neglecting  her  father,  she  arose  soon  after 
herself,  but  was  scarcely  able  to  put  on  her  clothes  from  exces- 
sive weakness.  She  found  him  in  bed,  but  awake.  He  wel- 
comed her  with  a languid  smile,  and  extending  his  hand,  which 
was  reduced  to  mere  skin  and  bone,  said,  ‘‘  that  joy  was  a 
greater  enemy  to  repose  than  grief,  and  had  broken  his  earlier 
than  usual  that  morning.”  He  made  her  sit  down  by  him. 
He  gazed  on  her  with  unutterable  tenderness.  “ In  Divine  lan- 
guage,” cried  he,  “ I may  say — ‘ Let  me  see  thy  countenance  \ 
let  me  hear  thy  voice  : but  sweet  is  thy  voice,  and  thy  counte- 
nance is  comely,  and  my  soul  has  pleasure  in  gazing  on  it.’  ” 
The  kettle  was  already  boiling.  He  had  procured  a few  neces^ 
saries  for  himself,  such  as  tea-things  and  glasses.  Amanda 
placed  the  tea-table  by  the  bed-side,  and  gave  him  his  break- 
fast. Whilst  receiving  it  from  her,  his  eyes  were  raised  to 
Heaven,  as  if  in  thankful  gratitude  for  the  inestimable  bless- 
ing he  still  possessed  in  such  a child.  After  breakfast,  he  said 
he  would  rise,  and  Amanda  retired  into  the  garden  till  he  was 
dressed,  if  that  could  deserve  the  appellation,  which  was  only 
a slip  of  ground  planted  with  cabbages  and  potatoes,  and  en- 
closed with  loose  stones  and  blackberry  bushes.  The  spring 
was  already  advanced.  The  day  was  fine.  The  light  and 
fleecy  clouds  was  gradually  dispersing,  and  the  sky,  almost  as 
far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  was  of  a clear  blue.  The  dusky 
green  of  the  blackberry  bushes  was  enlivened  by  the  pale  pur- 
ple of  their  blossoms.  Tufts  of  primroses  grew  beneath  their 
shelter.  The  fields,  which  rose  with  a gentle  swell  above  the 
garden,  were  covered  with  a vivid  green,  spangled  with  daisies, 
buttercups,  and  wild  honeysuckles,  and  the  birds,  as  they  flut- 
tered from  spray  to  spray,  with  notes  of  gladness  hailed  the 
genial  season. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


311 

But  neither  the  season  nor  its  charms  could  now,  as  hereto- 
fore, delight  Amanda.  She  felt  forlorn  and  disconsolate  ; de- 
prived of  the  comforts  of  life,  and  no  longer  interested  in  the 
objects  about  her,  she  sat  down  upon  a stone  at  the  end  of  the 
garden,  and  she  thought  the  fresh  breeze  from  the  sea  cooled 
the  feverish  heat  of  her  blood.  Alas  ! ” she  said  to  herself, 
at  this  season  last  year,  how  different  was  my  situation  from 
the  present ! Though  not  in  affluence,  neither  was  she  then 
in  absolute  distress  ; and  she  had  besides  the  comfortable  hope 
of  having  her  father’s  difficulties  removed.  Like  Burns’  moun- 
tain daisy,  she  had  then  cheerfully  glinted  forth  amidst  the 
storm,  because,  she  thought  that  storm  would  be  soon  over 
blown  j but  now,  she  saw  herself  on  the  point  of  being  finally 
crushed  beneath  the  rude  pressure  of  poverty. 

She  recollected  the  words  which  had  escaped  her  when  she 
last  saw  Tudor  Hall,  and  she  thought  they  were  dictated  by 
something  like  a prophetic  spirit.  She  had  then  said,  as  she 
leaned  upon  a little  gate  which  looked  into  the  domain  : When 
these  woods  again  glow  with  vegetation ; when  every  shade  re- 
sounds with  harmony,  and  the  flowers  and  the  blossoms  spread 
their  foliage  to  the  sun,  ah!  where  will  Amanda  be  ! far  distant, 
in  all  probability,  from  these  delightful  shades  ; perhaps  de- 
serted and  forgotten  by  their  master.” 

She  was  indeed  far  distant  from  them  ; deserted,  and  if  not 
forgotten,  at  least  only  remembered  with  contempt  by  their 
master — remembered  with  contempt  by  Lord  Mortimer.  It 
was  an  idea  of  intolerable  anguish.  His  name  was  no  more 
repeated  as  a charm  to  soothe  her  grief  ; his  idea  increased  her 
misery. 

She  continued  indulging  her  melancholy  meditations,  till  in- 
formed by  one  of  the  children  the  captain  was  ready  to  receive 
her.  She  hastened  in,  and  found  him  in  an  old  high-backed 
chair,  and  the  ravages  of  care  and  sickness  were  now  more  vis- 
ible to  her  than  they  had  been  the  night  before.  Lie  was  re- 
duced to  a mere  skeleton.  “ The  original  brightness  of  his 
form  ” was  quite  gone,  and  he  seemed  already  on  the  very  brink 
of  the  grave.  The  agony  of  Amanda’s  feelings  was  expressed 
on  her  countenance — he  perceived  and  guessed  its  source.  He 
endeavored  to  compose  arid  comfort  her.  She  mentioned  a 
physician  ; he  tried  ^o  dissuade  her  from  the  idea  of  bringing 
one,  but  she  besought  him  in  compassion  to  her  to  consent,  and 
overcome  by  her  earnestness,  he  at  last  promised  the  ensuing 
day  she  should  do  as  she  wished. 

It  was  now  Sunday,  and  he  desired  the  service  of  the  day 


312 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.' 


to  be  read.  A small  Bible  lay  on  the  table  before  him,  and 
Amanda  complied  with  his  desire. 

In  the  first  lesson  were  these  words  : ‘‘  Leave  thy  fatherless 
children  to  me,  and  I will  be  their  father.’’  The  tears  gushed 
from  Fitzalan  ; he  laid  his  hand,  which  appeared  convulsed  with 
agitation,  on  the  book.  Oh  ! what  words  of  comfort ! ” cried 
he,  are  these  ; what  transport  do  they  convey  to  the  heart  of 
a parent  burdened  with  anxiety  ! Yes,  merciful  Power,  I will,, 
with  grateful  joy,  commit  my  children  to  thy  care,  for  thou  art 
the  friend  who  will  never  forsake  them.”  He  desired  Amanda 
to  proceed  ; her  voice  was  weak  and  broken,  and  the  tears,  in 
spite  of  her  efforts  to  restrain  them,  stole  down  her  cheeks. 

When  she  had  concluded,  her  father  drew  her  towards  him, 
and  inquired  into  all  that  had  passed  during  her  stay  in  Lorn 
don.  She  related  to  him,  without  reserve,  the  various  incidents 
she  had  met  with  iDrevious  to  her  going  to  the  marchioness’s  ; 
acknowledged  the  hopes  and  fears  she  experienced  on  Lord 
Mortimer’s  account,  and  the  argument  he  had  made  use  of  to 
induce  her  to  a clandestine  union,  with  her  positive  refusal  to 
such  a step. 

A beam  of  pleasure  illumined  the  pallid  face  of  Fitzalan. 
“You  acted,”  said  he,  “as  I expected;  and  I glory  in  my 
child,  and  feel  more  indignation  than  ever  against  Lord  Cher 
bury  for  his  mean  suspicions.”  Amanda  was  convinced  those 
suspicions  had  been  infused  into  his  mind  by  those  who  had 
struck  at  her  peace  and  fame.  This  idea,  however,  as  well  as 
their  injuries  to  her,  she  meant  if  possible  to  conceal.  When 
her  father,  therefore,  desired  her  to  proceed  in  her  narrative, 
her  voice  began  to  falter,  her  mind  became  disturbed,  and  her 
countenance  betrayed  her  agitation.  The  remembrance  of  the 
dreadful  scenes  she  had  gone  through  at  the  marchioness’s 
made  her  involuntarily  shudder,  and  she  wished  to  conceal 
them  forever  from  her  father,  but  found  it  impossible  to  evade 
his  minute  and  earnest  inquiries. 

“Gracious  Heaven!”  said  he,  on  hearing  them,  “what 
complicated  cruelty  and  deceit ; inhuman  monsters  ! to  have 
no  pity  on  one  so  young,  so  innocent,  so  helpless.  The  hand 
of  sorrow  has  indeed  pressed  heavy  on  thee,  my  child ; but, 
after  the  marchioness’s  former  conduct,  I cannot  be  surprised 
at  any  action  of  hers.” 

He  gave  her  a note  to  discharge  her  debt  to  Howel,  and 
begged  she  would  immediately  write  and  return  his  grateful 
acknowledgments  for  his  benevolence.  She  feared  he  incon- 
venienced himself  by  parting  with  the  note  ; but  he  assured  her 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


313 

he  could  spare  it  extremely  well,  as  he  had  been  an  economist, 
and  had  still  sufficient  money  to  support  them  a few  months 
longer  in  their  present  situation. 

Amanda  now  inquired  when  he  had  heard  from  her  brother. 
She  said  he  had  not  answered  her  last  letter,  and  that  his 
silence  had  made  her  very  uneasy. 

“ Alas  ! poor  Oscar  ! ” exclaimed  Fitzalan,  “ he  has  not  been 
exempt  from  his  portion  of  distress.’’ 

He  took  a letter,  as  he  spoke,  from  his  pocket-book,  and 
presented  it  to  Amanda.  She  opened  it  with  a trembling  hand, 
and  read  as  follows  : — 

My  dear  Father, — Particular  circumstances  prevented  my  answering 
your  last  letter  as  soon  as  I could  have  wished  ; and,  indeed,  the  intelligence 
I have  to  communicate  makes  me  almost  averse  to  write  at  all.  As  my 
situation,  however,  must  sooner  or  later  be  known  to  you,  I think  it  better 
to  inform  you  of  it  myself,  as  I can,  at  the  same  time,  reconcile  you,  I trust, 
in  some  degree  to  it,  by  assuring  you  I bear  it  patiently,  and  that  it  has  not 
been  caused  by  any  action  which  can  degrade  my  character  as  a man  or  a 
soldier.  I have  long,  indeed,  had  a powerful  enemy  to  cope  with,  and  it 
will  no  doubt  surprise  you  to  hear,  that  that  enemy  is  Colonel  Belgrave.  An 
interference  in  the  cause  of  humanity  provoked  his  insolence  and  malignity. 
Neither  his  words  nor  looks  were  bearable,  and  I was  irritated  by  them  to 
send  him  a challenge.  Had  I reflected,  the  probable  consequences  of  such 
a step  must  have  occurred  and  prevented  my  taking  it ; but  passion  blinded 
my  reason,  and  in  yielding  to  its  dictates  do  I hold  myself  alone  culpable 
throughout  the  whole  affair.  I gave  him  the  opportunity  his  malicious 
heart  had  long  desired,  of  working  my  ruin.  I was,  by  his  order,  put  under 
an  immediate  arrest.  A court-martial  was  held,  and  I was  broke  for  dis- 
respect to  a superior  officer ; but  it  was  imagined  by  the  whole  corps  I 
should  have  been  restored.  I,  however,  knew  too  much  of  Belgrave’s  dis- 
position to  believe  this  would  be  the  case ; but  never  shall  he  triumph  in 
the  distress  he  has  caused  by  witnessing  it.  I have  already  settled  on  the 
course  I shall  pursue,  and  ere  this  letter  reaches  you  I shall  have  quitted 
my  native  kingdom.  Forgive  me,  my  dear  sir,  for  not  consulting  you  rela- 
tive to  my  conduct.  But  I feared,  if  I did,  your  tenderness  would  interfere 
to  prevent  it,  or  lead  you  to  distress  yourself  on  my  account ; and  to  think 
that  you  and  my  dear  sister  were  deprived  of  the  smallest  comfort,  by  my 
means,  would  be  a source  of  intolerable  anguish  to  me.  Blessed  as  I am 
with  youth,  health  and  fortitude,  I have  no  doubt  but  I shall  make  my  way 
through  the  rugged  path  of  life  extremely  well.  A parting  visit  I avoided, 
from  the  certainty  of  its  being  painful  to  us  both.  I shall  write  as  soon  as 
I reach  my  place  of  destination.  I rejoice  to  hear  Amanda  is  so  happily 
situated  with  Lady  Greystock ; may  your  suffering  and  her  merit  be  re- 
warded as  they  deserve  ! Suffer  not,  I entreat,  too  tender  an  anxiety  for 
my  interest  to  disturb  your  repose.  I again  repeat  I have  no  doubt  but 
what  I shall  do  well.  That  Providence,  in  which  I trust,  will,  I humbly 
hope,  support  me  through  every  difficulty,  and  again  unite  me  to  the  friends 
so  valuable  to  my  heart.  Farewell,  my  dear  father,  and,  be  assured,  with 
unabated  respect  and  gratitude,  I subjoin  myself  your  affectionate  son, 

Oscar  Fitzalan. 


3H 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  ^ 


This  letter  was  a cruel  shock  to  Amanda.  She  hoped  to 
have  procured  her  brother’s  company,  and  that  her  father’s 
melancholy  and  her  own  would  have  been  alleviated  by  it.  Sen- 
sible of  the  difficulties  Oscar  must  undergo,  without  friends  or 
fortune,  the  tears  stole  down  her  cheeks,  and  she  almost  dread- 
ed she  could  no  more  behold  him. 

Her  father  besought  her  to  spare  him  the  misery  of  seeing 
those  tears.  He  leaned  upon  her  for  comfort  and  support,  he 
said,  and  bid  her  not  disappoint  him.  She  hastily  wiped  away 
her  tears ; and  though  she  could  not  conquer,  tried  to  suppress 
her  anguish. 

Johnaten  and  Kate  called,  in  the  course  of  the  day,  to  know 
if  they  could  be  of  any  service  to  Fitzalan.  Amanda  engaged 
Johnaten  to  go  to  town  the  next  morning  for  a physician,  and 
gave  Kate  the  key  of  a wardrobe  where  she  had  left  some 
things,  which  she  desired  her  to  pack  up  and  send  to  the  cabin 
in  the  evening.  Mrs.  Byrne  gave  them  one  of  her  fowls  for 
dinner,  and  Fitzalan  assumed  an  appearance  of  cheerfulness^ 
and  the  evening  wore  away  somewhat  better  than  the  preced- 
ing part  of  the  day  had  done. 

Johnaten  was  punctual  in  obeying  Amanda’s  commands, 
and  brought  a physician  the  next  morning  to  the  cabin.  Fitz- 
alan appeared  much  worse,  and  Amanda  rejoiced  that  she  had 
been  resolute  in  procuring  him  advice. 

She  withdrew  from  the  room  soon  after  the  physician  had 
entered  it,  and  waited  without  in  trembling  anxiety  for  his  ap- 
pearance. When  he  came  out  she  asked,  with  a faltering  voice, 
his  opinion,  and  besought  him  not  to  deceive  her  from  pity  to 
her  feelings. 

He  shook  his  head,  and  assured  her  he  would  not  deviate 
from  truth  for  the  world.  The  captain  was  indeed  in  a tick- 
lish situation,  he  said,  but  the  medicines  he  had  ordered,  and 
sea  bathing,  he  doubted  not,  would  set  all  to  rights  ; it  was 
fortunate,  he  added,  she  delayed  no  longer  sending  for  him ; 
mentioned  twenty  miraculous  cures  he  had  performed  ; ad- 
mired the  immense  fine  prospect  before  the  door,  and  wished 
her  good-morning,  with  what  he  thought  quite  a degagee  and 
irresistible  air. 

She  was  willing  to  believe  his  assurance  of  her  father’s  re- 
covery ; as  the  drowning  wretch  will  grasp  at  every  straw,  she 
eagerly  embraced  the  shadow  of  comfort,  and  in  the  recovery 
of  her  father,  looked  forward  to  consolation  for  all  her  sor- 
rows. She  struggled  against  her  own  illness,  that  no  assidu- 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


315 

ous  attention  might  be  wanting  to  him  ; and  would  have  sat 
up  with  him  at  night,  had  he  not  positively  insisted  on  her 
going  to  bed. 

The  medicines  he  was  ordered  he  received  from  her  hands, 
but  with  a look  which  seemed  to  express  his  conviction  of  their 
inefficacy.  All,  however,  she  wished  him  to  do,  he  did,  and 
often  raised  his  eyes  to  Heaven,  as  if  to  implore  it  to  reward 
her  care,  and  yet  a little  longer  spare  him  to  this  beloved 
child,  whose  happiness  so  much  depended  on  the  prolongation 
of  his  existence. 

Four  days  passed  heavily  away,  and  the  assurances  of  the 
physician,  who  was  punctual  in  his  attendance,  lost  their  effect 
upon  Amanda.  Her  father  was  considerably  altered  for  the 
worse,  and  unable  to  rise,  except  for  a few  minutes  in  the  even- 
ing, to  have  his  bed  made.  He  complained  of  no  pain  or  sick- 
ness, but  seemed  sinking  beneath  an  easy  and  gradual  decay. 
It  was  only  at  intervals  he  could  converse  with  his  daughter. 
His  conversation  was  then  calculated  to  strengthen  her  forti- 
tude and  resignation,  and  prepare  her  for  an  approaching  mel- 
ancholy event.  Whenever  she  received  a hint  of  it,  her  agony 
was  inexpressible ; but  pity  for  her  feelings  could  not  prevent 
her  father  from  using  every  opportunity  that  occurred  for  lay- 
ing down  rules  and  precepts  which  might  be  serviceable  to  her 
when  without  a guide  or  protector.  Sometimes  he  adverted  to 
the  past,  but  this  was  only  done  to  make  her  more  cautious  in 
the  future. 

He  charged  her  to  avoid  any  further  intimacy  with  Lord 
Mortimer,  as  an  essential  measure  for  the  restoranon  of  her 
peace,  the  preservation  of  her  fame,  and  the  removal  of  Lord 
Cherbury’s  unjust  suspicions,  “who  will  find  at  last,'"  continued 
he,  “how  much  he  wronged  me,  and  may,  perhaps,  feel  com- 
punction when  beyond  his  power  to  make  reparation.” 

To  all  he  desired,  Amanda  promised  a religious  observ- 
ance ; she  thought  it  unnecessary  in  him,  indeed,  10  desire  he! 
to  avoid  Lord  Mortimer,  convinced  as  she  was  that  he  had 
utterly  abandoned  her ; but  the  grief  this  desertion  occasioned, 
she  believed  she  should  soon  overcome  v/as  her  father  once  re- 
stored to  health,  for  then  she  would  have  no  time  for  useless 
regrets  or  retrospections,  but  be  obliged  to  pass  every  hour  in 
active  exertions  for  his  support  and  comfort. 

A week  passed  away  in  this  manner  at  the  cabin — a week 
of  wretchedness  to  Amanda,  who  perceived  her  father  growing 
weaker  and  weaker.  She  assisted  him,  as  usual,  to  rise  one 
evening  for  a few  minutes ; when  dressed,  he  complained  of  an 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


316 

oppression  In  his  breathing,  and  desired  to  be  supported  to  the 
air.  Amanda  wit?  difficulty  led  him  to  the  window,  which  she 
opened,  and  seated  him  by  it,  then  knelt  before  him,  and  put- 
ting her  arms  round  his  waist,  fastened  her  eyoe  with  anxious 
tenderness  upon  his  face. 

The  evening  was  serenely  fine ; the  sun  was  setting  in  all 
its  glory,  and  the  sea,  illumined  by  its  parting  beams^  looked 
like  a sheet  of  burnished  silver. 

What  a lovely  scene  1 ’’  cried  Fitzalan  faintly  ; with  what 
majesty  does  the  sun  retire  from  the  world  1 the  calmness  which 
attends  its  departure  is  such,  I think,  as  must  attend  the  exit 
of  a good  man.’’  He  paused  -for  a few  minutes,  then  raising 
his  eyes  to  heaven,  exclaimed  — Merciful  Power ! had  it 
pleased  thee,  I could  have  wished  yet  a little  longer  to  have 
been  spared  to  this  young  creature ; but  thy  will,  not  mine,  be 
done  ! Confiding  in  thy  mercy,  I leave  her  with  some  degree 
of  fortitude.” 

Amanda’s  tears  began  to  flow  as  he  spoke.  He  raised  his 
hand,  on  which  they  fell,  and,  kissing  them  off,  exclaimed — > 
Precious  drops  ! My  Amanda,  weep  not  too  bitterly  for  me 
—like  a weary  traveller,  think  that  rest  must  now  be  acceptable 
to  me.” 

She  interrupted  him,  and  conjured  him  to  change  the  dis- 
course. He  shook  his  head  mournfully,  pressed  her  hands  be- 
tween his,  and  said  : — 

‘‘Yet  a little  longer,  my  child,  bear  with  it ; then  bade  her 
assure  her  brother,  whenever  they  met,  which  he  trusted  and 
believed  would  be  soon,  he  had  his  father’s  blessing, — “ the 
only  legacy,”  he  cried,  “ I can  leave  him,  but  one,  1 am  con- 
fident, he  merits,  and  will  value.  To  you,  my  girl,  I have  no 
doubt  he  will  prove  a friend  and  guardian.  You  may  both, 
perhaps',  be  amply  recompensed  for  all  your  sorrows.  Provi- 
dence is  just  in  all  its  dealings,  and  may  3^et  render  the  lovely 
offspring  of  my  Malvina  truly  happy.” 

He  appeared  exhausted  by  speaking,  and  Amanda  assisted 
him  to  lie  down,  entreating  him,  at  the  same  time,  to  take  some 
drops.  He  consented,  and  while  she  was  pouring  them  out  at 
a little  table,  her  back  to  the  bed,  she  heard  a deep  groan. 
The  bottle  dropped  from  her  hand,  she  sprang  to  the  bed,  and 
perceived  her  father  lying  senseless  on  the  pillow.  She  im- 
agined he  had  fainted,  and  screamed  out  for  assistance.  The 
woman  of  the  cabin,  her  husband,  and  mother,  all  rushed  into 
the  room.  He  was  raised  up,  his  temples  and  hands  chafed, 
and  every  remedy,  within  the  house  applied  for  his  recovery, 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


317 

but  In  vain  — his  spirit  had  forsaken  its  tenement  of  clay 
forever. 

Amanda,  when  convinced  of  this,  wrung  her  hands  together  ; 
then,  suddenly  opening  them,  she  clasped  the  lifeless  body  to 
her  breast,  and  sunk  fainting  beside  it. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

She  remained  a considerable  time  in  a state  of  insensibil- 
ity, and,  when  recovered,  she  found  herself  in  a bed  laid  upon 
the  floor  in  a corner  of  the  outside  room.  Her  senses  were  at 
first  confused — she  felt  as  if  waking  from  a disagreeable  dream, 
but  in  a few  minutes  a perfect  recollection  of  what  had  passed 
returned.  She  saw  some  one  sitting  by  the  bed — she  raised 
herself  a little,  and  perceived  Sister  Mary.  This  is,  indeed, 
a charitable  visit,”  cried  she,  extending  her  hand,  and  speak- 
ing in  a low  broken  voice.  The  good-natured  nun  jumped  from 
her  seat  on  hearing  her  speak,  and  embraced  her  most  tender- 
ly. Her  caresses  affected  Amanda  inexpressibly — she  dropped 
her  head  upon  her  breast,  and  wept  with  a vehemence  which 
relieved  the  oppression  of  her  heart. 

Sister  Mary  said  she  had  never  heard  of  her  return  to  the 
country,  till  Mrs.  Byrne  came  to  St.  Catherine's  fora  few  sprigs 
of  rosemary  to  strew  over  the  poor  captain.  She  had  returned 
with  her  then  to  the  cabin,  to  try  if  she  could  be  of  any  service, 
and  to  invite  her,  in  the  name  of  the  prioress  and  the  whole 
sisterhood,  to  the  convent, 

Amanda  thanked  her  for  her  kind  invitation,  which,  she 
said,  she  must  decline  accepting  for  a few  days,  till  she  had 
performed  all  her  duties,  which,  in  a voice  half  stifled  by  sobs, 
she  added,  “ the  grave  would  soon  terminate.”  She  was  sorry, 
she  said,  that  they  had  undressed  her,  and  requested  Sister 
Mary  to  assist  her  in  putting  on  her  clothes.  The  sister 
tried  to  dissuade  her  from  this,  but  soon  found  she  was  deter- 
mined to  spend  the  remainder  of  the  night  in  her  father's  apart- 
ment. She  accordingly  dressed  her— for  Amanda's  trembling 
hands  refused  their  accustomed  office — and  made  her  take  a 
glass  of  wine  and  water,  ere  she  suffered  her  to  move  towards 
the  door.  Amanda  was  astonished,  as  she  approached  it,  to 
hear  a violent  noise,  like  the  mingled  sounds  of  laughing  and 


3i8  the  children  of  the  abbey.  ^ 

singing.  Her  soul  recoiled  at  the  tumult,  and  she  asked  Sister 
Mary,  with  a countenance  of  terror,  ‘Svhat  it  meant?’’  She 
replied,  “ it  was  only  some  friends  and  neighbors  doing  honor 
to  the  captain.”  Amanda  hastily  opened  the  door,  anxious  to 
terminate  the  suspense  these  words  occasioned,  but,  how  great 
was  her  horror,  when  she  perceived  a set  of  the  meanest  rustics 
assembled  round  the.  bed,  with  every  appearance  of  inebriety, 
laughing,  shouting,  and  smoking.  What  a savage  scene  for  a 
child,  whose  heart  was  bursting  with  grief ! She  shrieked  with 
j horror,  and,  flinging  herself  into  the  arms  of  Sister  Mary,  con- 
jured her  to  have  the  room  cleared. 

Sister  Mary,  from  being  accustomed  to  such  scenes,  felt 
neither  horror  nor  disgust : she  complied,  however,  with  the  re- 
quest of  Amanda,  and  besought  them  to  depart,  saying : that 
Miss  Fitzalan  was  a stranger  to  their  customs,  and  besides,  poor 
thing,  quite  beside  herself  with  grief.”  They  began  to  grumble 
at  the  proposal  of  removing  ; they  had  made  preparations  for 
spending  a merry  night,  and  Mrs.  Byrne  said,  if  she  had 
thought  things  would  have  turned  out  in  this  way,  the  captain 
might  have  found  some  other  place  to  die  in — for  the  least  one 
could  have,  after  his  giving  them  so  much  trouble,  was  a little 
enjoyment  with  one’s  neighbors  at  the  latter  end.”  Johnaten 
and  Kate,  who  were  among  the  party,  joined  their  entreaties  to 
Sister  Mary’s^  and  she,  to  tempt  them  to  compliance,  said, 
that  in  all  probability  they  w^ould  soon  have  another  and  a 
better  opportunity  for  making  merry  than  the  present.”  They 
at  length  retired,  and  Sister  Mary  and  Amanda  were  left  alone 
in  the  chamber  of  death.  The  dim  light  which  remained  cast  a 
glimmering  shade  upon  the  face  of  Fitzalan,  that  added  to  its 
ghastliness.  Amanda  now  indulged  in  all  the  luxury  of  grief, 
and  found  in  Sister  Mary  a truly  sympathetic  friend,  for  the 
good  nun  w^as  famed  throughout  the  little  circle  of  her  acquaint- 
ance for  weeping  with  those  that  wept,  and  rejoicing  with  those 
that  rejoiced.  She  obtained  a promise  from  Amanda  of  accom- 
panying her  to  St.  Catherine’s  as  soon  as  her  father  was  interred  ; 
and  in  return  for  this  she  gave  an  assurance  of  continuing  with 
her  till  the  last  melancholy  offices  were  over,  and  also,  that  with 
the  assistance  of  Johnaten^  she  would  see  everything  . proper 
provided.  This  was  some  comfort  to  Amanda,  who  felt  herself 
at  present  unequal  to  any  exertion  ; yet,  notwithstanding  her 
fatigue  and  illness,  she  persevered  in  her  resolution  of  sitting 
up  with  her  father  every  night,  dreading  that,  if  she  retired  to 
bed,  a scene  of  riot  would  again  ensue,  which,  in  her  opinion, 
was  sacrilege  to  the  dead.  She  went  to  bed  every  morning  and 

i 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


3^9 

was  nursed  with  the  most  tender  attention  by  Sister  Mary,  who 
also  insisted  on  being  her  companion  at  night.  This,  however, 
v;as  but  a mere  matter  of  form,  for  the  good  sister  was  totally 
unaole  to  keep  her  eyes  open,  and  slept  as  comfortably  upon  the 
earthen  floor,  with  her  gown  made  into  a pillow  for  her  head, 
as  if  laid  upon  down  : then  was  poor  Amanda  left  to  her  own 
reflections,  and  the  melancholy  contemplation  of  her  beloved 
father’s  remains.  The  evening  of  the  fourth  day  after  his  de- 
cease was  fixed  upon  for  his  interment ; with  streaming  eyes 
and  a breaking  heart,  Amanda  beheld  him  put  into  the  coffin, 
and  in  that  moment  felt  as  if  he  had  again  died  before  her.  A 
small  procession  attended,  consisting  of  the  people  of  the  house, 
Johnaten  and  Kate,  and  a few  respectable  farmers,  to  whom 
Fitzalan  had  endeared  himself  during  his  short  abode  at  Castle 
Carberry , the  men  had  scarfs  and  hat-bands,  and  the  women 
hoods. 

Johnaten,  who  had  been  a soldier  in  .his  youth,  resolved  to 
pay  him  some  military  honors,  and  placed  his  hat  and  sword  upon 
the  coffin.  Amanda,  by  the  most  painful  efforts,  supported  the 
preparations  for  his  removal ; but  wffien  she  saw  the  coffin  ac- 
tually raised  to  be  taken  out,  she  could  no  longer  restrain  her 
feelings  ; she  shrieked  in  the  agony  of  her  soul,  a sickness, 
almost  deadly,  seized  her  and  she  fell  fainting  upon  Sister 
Mary’s  bosom. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 


“ Oh,  let  me  unlade  my  breast, 

Pour  out  the  fulness  of  my  soul  before  you, 

Show  every  tender,  every  grateful  thought, 

This  wondrous  goodness  stirs.  But  ’tis  impossible, 

And  utterance  all  is  vile  ; since  I can  only 

Swear  you  reign  here,  but  never  tell  how  much.” — Rowe. 


Sister  Mary  recovered  her  with  difficulty,  but  found  it  im* 
possible  to  remove  her  from  the  cabin  till  she  was  more  com- 
posed. In  about  two  hours  its  inhabitants  returned,  and  the 
car  having  arrived  which  she  had  ordered  to  convey  Amanda  to 
St.  Catherine’s,  she  was  placed  upon  it  in  a state  scarcely  ani- 
mate, and.  supported  by  Sister  Mary,  was  conveyed  to  that 
peaceful  asylum.  On  arriving  at  it  she  was  carried  immediately 
into  the  prioress’s  apartment,  who  received  and  welcomed  her 


320 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABREK  . 


with  the  most  tender  affection  and  sensibility — a tenderness 
which  roused  Amanda  from  the  stupefaction  into  which  she  ap- 
peared sinking,  and  made  her  weep  violently.  She  felt  relieved 
from  doing  so,  and,  as  some  return  for  the  kindness  she  received, 
endeavored  to  appear  benefited  by  it.  She  therefore  declined 
going  to  bed,  but  lay  down  upon  a little  matted  couch  in  the 
prioress’s  room.  The  tea-table  was  close  by  it.  As  she  refused 
any  other  refreshment,  she  obtained  this  by  a promise  of  eating 
something  with  it.  None  of  the  sisterhood — Sister  Mary  ex- 
cepted— were  admitted  ; and  Amanda  felt  this  delicate  attention 
and  respect  to  her  sorrows  with  gratitude.  She  arrived  on  the 
eve  of  their  patron  saint  at  the  convent  which  was  always 
celebrated  with  solemnity.  After  tea,  therefore,  the  prioress 
and  Sister  Mary  were  compelled  to  repair  to  the  chapel  ; but 
she  removed  the  reluctance  they  felt  to  leave  her  alone  by  com- 
plaining of  being  drowsy.  A pillow  being  laid  under  her  head 
by  Sister  Mary,  soon  after  they  quitted  her  she  fell  into  a pro- 
found slumber,  in  which  she  continued  till  awoke  by  distant 
music,  so  soft,  so  clear,  so  harmonious,  that  the  delightful  sem 
sations  it  gave  her  she  could  only  compare  to  those  which  she 
imagined  a distressed  and  pensive  soul  would  feel  when,  spring- 
ing from  the  shackles  of  mortality,  it  first  heard  the  heavenly 
sounds  that  welcomed  it  to  the  realms  of  bliss.  The  chapel  from 
which  those  celestial  sounds  proceeded  was  at  the  extremity  of 
the  house,  so  that  they  sometimes  swelled  upon  her  ear,  some- 
times faintly  sunk  upon  it.  The  pauses  in  the  organ,  which  was 
finely  played,  were  filled  up  by  the  sweet,  though  less  powerful 
strains  of  the  sisterhood,  who  sung  a hymn  in  honor  of  their 
saint. 

“No  one  was  here  exempt, 

No  voice  but  well  could  join  melodious  part.*’ 

’Tis  a foretaste  of  heaven,  thought  Amanda.  She  heard  a 
deep  sigh  behind  her.  She  turned  her  head  hastily,  and  per- 
ceived a figure  standing  near,  which  bore  a strong  resemblance 
to  Lord  Mortimer.  She  was  alarmed.  She  could  not  believe 
it  was  him.  The  light  which  the  small  and  heavy-arched  window 
admitted  was  imperfect,  and  she  rose  from  the  couch  to  be 
better  assured  it  was  or  was  not  him.  A second  glance  con- 
vinced her.  She  might  have  believed  her  eyes  at  first.  Trem- 
bling and  astonished,  she  sunk  upon  a seat,  exclaiming,  Gra- 
cious heaven  ! what  can  have  brought  Lord  Mortimer  hither  ? ” 

He  made  no  reply,  but,  kneeling  before  her,  took  her  hands 
in  his,  pressed  them  to  his  forehead  and  lips,  and  laid  his  head 
upon  them. 


THE  CHILDREiV  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


321 


Why/’  cried  Amanda,  unutterably  affected  by  the  emo- 
tions he  betrayed,  “ why,  my  lord,  are  you  come  hither  ? ” 
‘‘To  try,”  he  replied,  in  a voice  scarcely  articulate,  “whether 
Miss  Fitzalan  will  yet  consider  me  as  her  friend.”  “ That,  my 
lord,”  said  she,  “ depends  upon  circumstances  ; but  while  your 
lordship  remains  in  yourjDresent  position,  what  they  are  I can- 
not explain.” 

Lord  Mortimer  instantly  rose  and  seated  himself  beside  her. 
“ Now,  tell  me,”  said  he,  “ what  those  circumstances  are.” 
“ The  first,  my  lord,  is  to  exculpate  my  father  in  the  opinion  of 
Lord  Cherbury,  and,  by  declaring  the  commencement  and 
progress  of  our  acquaintance,  eradicate  from  his  lordship’s  mind 
the  injurious  suspicions  he  entertained  against  him.  This, 
perhaps,  you  will  say  is  useless,  considering  those  suspicions 
can  no  longer  wound  him  ; but,  my  lord,  I deem  it  an  incum- 
bent duty  on  me  to  remove  from  his  memory  the  obloquy  on 
my  account  cast  on  it.”  “ I promise  yon  most  solemnly,” 
said  Lord  Mortimer,  “you  shall  be  obeyed.  This  is  a debt  of 
justice,  which  I had  resolved  to  pay  ere  I received  your  injunc- 
tion for  doing  so.  It  is  but  lately  I heard  of  the  unjust  charges 
made  against  him,  nor  do  I know  now  what  fiend  gave  rise  to 
them.”  “The  same,  perhaps,”  cried  Amanda,  “who  spread 
such  complicated  snares  for  my  destruction,  and  involved  me 
in  every  horror  but  that  which  proceeds  from  conscious  guilt. 
Oh,  my  lord  ! the  second  circumstance  I allude  to  is,  if  you 
should  hear  my  name  treated  with  scorn  and  contempt  by  those 
few — those  very  few — whom  I had  reason  to  esteem,  and  to 
believe  esteemed  me,  that  you  would  kindly  interpose  in  my 
justification,  and  say  I merited  not  the  aspersions  cast  upon 
me.  Believe  me  innocent,  and  you  will  easily  persuade  others; 
I am  so.  You  shake  your  head,  as  much  as  to  say  you  cannot 
think  me  so,  after  the  proofs  you  have  seen  to  the  contrary. 
Ah,  my  lord  ! the  proofs  were  contrived  by  malice  and  treachery, 
to  ruin  me  in  the  estimation  of  my  friends,  and  by  perfidy,  to 
force  me  into  a crime,  of  which  I already  bear  the  appearance 
and  the  stigma.  Surely,  in  this  solemn  hour,  which  has  seen 
my  beloved  father  consigned  to  his  kindred  earth,  when,  with 
a mind  harassed  by  sorrow,  and  a body  worn  out  with  fatigue, 
I feel  as  if  standing  on  the  verge  of  the  grave,  I should  be  the 
most  abandoned  of  wretches,  if  I could  assert  my  innocence 
without  the  consciousness  of  really  possessing  it.  No,  my 
lord  ; by  such  a falsehood  I should  be  not  only  wicked,  but 
foolish,  in  depriving  myself  of  tnat  happiness  hereafter  which 
will  so  fully  recompense  my  pre?;ent  miseries.”  “ Oh,  Amanda  1 ” 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


322 

cried  Lord  Mortimer,  who  had  been  walking  backward  and 
forward  in  an  agitated  manner  while  she  spoke,  “ you  would 
almost  convince  me  against  the  evidence  of  my  own  senses.’^ 
Almost,’'  she  repeated.  “Then  I see,  my  lord,  you  are 
determined  to  disbelieve  me.  But  why,  since  so  prejudiced 
against  me,  have  3^ou  come  hither  ? Was  it  merely  to  be  assured 
of  my  wretchedness  ? to  hear  me  say  that  I stand  alone  in  the 
world,  without  one  being  interested  about  my  welfare ; that  my 
present  asylum  is  bestowed  by  charity  ; and  that,  if  my  life  be 
prolonged,  it  must  be  spent  in  struggling  against  constitution, 
sorrow,  and  ill-fame,  to  procure  a subsistence.”  “ No,  no,” 
exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer,  flinging  himself  at  her  feet ; “ never 
shall  you  suffer  such  misery.  Were  you  even  the  being  I was 
tempted  to  think  you  some  time  ago,  never  would  Mortimer 
suffer  the  woman  his  heart  doated  on  to  feel  such  calamity.  I 
do  not,  I cannot  believe  you  would  deceive  me.  There  is  an 
irresistible  eloquence  in  your  words  that  convinces  me  you  have 
been  the  victim  of  treachery,  and  I its  dupe.  I cannot  give  you 
a more  convincing  proof  of  my  confidence  in  you,  than  by  again 
renewing  my  entreaties  to  have  one  fame,  one  fate,  one  fortune 
ours.” 

The  resolution  which  Amanda  had  forced  to  support  her 
through  the  painful  scene  she  guessed  would  ensue  the  moment 
she  saw  Lord  Mortimer,  now  vanished,  and  she  burst  into  a 
flood  of  tears.  She  saw  his  conduct  in  the  most  generous,  the 
most  exalted  light.  Notwithstanding  appearances  were  so  much 
against  her,  he  was  willing  to  rely  solely  on  her  own  assever- 
ation of  innocence,  and  to  run  every  risk  on  her  account,  that 
by  a union  he  might  shelter  her  from  the  distress  of  her  present 
situation.  But  while  her  sensibility  was  affected  by  his  ex- 
pressions, her  pride  was  alarmed  lest  he  should  impute  her 
ardent  desire  of  vindicating  herself  to  the  expectation  of  having 
his  addresses  renewed.  In  broken  accents  she  endeavored  to 
remove  such  an  idea,  if  it  had  arisen,  and  to  convince  him  that 
all  further  intimacy  between  them  must  now  be  terminated. 
Lord  Mortimer  ascribed  the  latter  part  of  her  speech  to  the 
resentment  she  felt  against  him  for  ever  entertaining  doubts  of 
her  worth.  She  desired  him  to  rise,  but  he  refused  till  he  was 
forgiven.  “My  forgiveness  is  yours  indeed,  my  lord,”  she  said, 

“ though  your  suspicions  wounded  me  to  the  soul.  I can 
scarcely  wonder  at  your  entertaining  them,  when  I reflect  on 
the  different  situations  in  which  I was  found,  which,  if  your  } 
lordship  can  spare  a little  longer  time,  or  deem  it  worth  devoting  | 
to  such  a purpose,  as  well  as  I am  able  I will  account  for  being  | 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBE  Y. 


iwcrlved  in  ” Lord  Mortimer  declared  his  ardent  desire  to 
hear  vhose  particulars,  which  nothing  but  a fear  of  fatiguing  or 
agitating  her  could  have  prevented  his  before  expressing.  He 
tnen  se  ' ed  himself  by  her,  and  taking  her  cold  and  emaciated 
hand  in  his,  listened  to  her  little  narrative. 

Ghe  briefly  informed  him  of  her  fatlier^s  residing  in  Devon- 
sLiie  after  the  death  oi  her  mother,  of  the  manner  in  which 
they  became  acquainted  with  Colonel  Belgravej,  of  his  having 
Ingratiated  himself  into  their  friendship,  by  pretending  to  be 
OscaI^5  friend,  and  then  plunging  them  in  distress,  when  he 
found  they  not  only  resisted  but  resented  his  villanous  designs. 
She  related  the  artful  manner  in  which  Lady  Greystock  had 
drawn  her  from  her  father’s  protection,  and  the  cold  and  insolent 
recep&n  she  met  from  the  marchioness  and  her  daughter, 
when  inuoduced  by  the  above-mentioned  lady,  the  enmity  the 
marchiones:^  bore  her  father,  the  sudden  alteration  in  her 
behavior,  the  invitation  to  her  house  so  unexpected  and  un- 
necessaij,  all  tended  to  inspire  a belief  that  she  was  concerned 
in  contriviiig  Colonel  Beigrave’s  admittance  to  the  house,  and 
had  also  given  JiOrd  Cherbury  reason  to  suspect  the  integrity 
m.  her  father. 

Lord  Mortimer  here  interrupted  Amanda,  to  mention  the 
conversation  which  passed  between  him  and  Mrs.  Jane  in  the 
hall. 

She  raised  her  hands  and  eyes  to  heaven  with  astonishment 
at  such  wickedness,  and  said,  ‘‘  Though  she  always  suspected 
the  girl’s  integrity,  from  a certain  sycophant  air,  she  never 
imagined  she  could  be  capable  of  such  baseness.” 

Lord  Mortimer  again  interrupted  her,  to  mention  what  Lady 
Greystock  had  told  him  concerning  Mrs.  Jennings,  as  also 
what  the  housekeeper  had  said  of  the  note  he  gave  her  for 
Amanda. 

“ Good  God  ! ” said  Amanda,  “ when  I hear  of  all  the  enemies 
I had,  I almost  wonder  I escaped  so  well.”  She  then  resumed 
her  narrative,  accounted  for  the  dislike  Mrs.  Jennings  had  to 
her,  and  explained  the  way  in  which  she  was  entrapped  into 
Colonel  Beigrave’s  power,  the  almost  miraculous  manner  in 
which  she  was  freed  from  his  house,  the  friendship  she  received 
from  Howel,  and  the  situation  in  which  she  arrived  at  Castle 
Carberry,  and  found  her  father.  The  closing  scene  she  could 
not  describe,  for  sighs  and  sobs  impeded  her  utterance.  Lord 
Mortimer  gently  folded  her  to  his  breast.  He  called  her  his 
dear,  his  unfortunate,  his  lovely  girl ; more  precious  than  ever 
to  his  heart,  and  declared  he  never  again  would  quit  her  till 


324 


THE  CHILD  RE  H OF  THE  ABBEY, 


she  had  given  him  a right  to  espouse  her  quarrels,  and  secure 
her  from  the  machinations  of  her  enemies.  Her  warm  tears 
wet  his  cheek  as  she  exclaimed,  ‘Hhat  could  never  be.’^ 

“ My  promise  is  already  past,’’  cried  sheo  “ That  which 
was  given  to  the  living  shall  not  be  forfeited  to  the  dead  j and 
this,  my  lord,  by  design,  is  the  last  time  we  must  ever  meet.” 
‘‘  What  promise  ? ” exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer.  ‘‘  Surely  no 
one  could  be  so  inhuman  as  to  extort  a promise  from  you  to 
give  me  up  ? ” “ It  was  not  inhumanity  extorted  it,”  replied 

Amanda,  “ but  honor,  rectitude,  and  discretion  j without  for^ 
feiting  those  never  can  I violate  it.  There  is  but  one  event 
could  make  me  acquiesce  in  your  wishes,  that  is,  having  a 
fortune  adequate  to  yours  to  bring  you.  because  then  Lord 
Cherbury  cpuld  ascribe  no  selfish  motive  to  my  conduct ; but 
as  such  an  event  is  utterly  improbable,  1 might  almost  say  im- 
possible, it  is  certain  we  shall  never  be  unitedo  Any  further 
intercourse  between  us,  you  must  therefore  be  convinced,  would 
injure  me.  Disturb  not,  therefore,  my  lord,  my  retirement ; 
but  ere  you  depart,  allow  me  to  assure  you  you  have  lightened 
the  weight  on  my  heart  by  crediting  what  I have  saido  Should 
I not  recover  from  the  illness  which  now  preys  upon  me,  it  will 
cheer  my  departing  spirit  to  know  you  think  me  innocent ; and, 
if  I live,  it  will  support  me  through  many  difficulties,  and  often, 
perhaps,  after  the  toils  of  a busy  day,  shall  I comfort  myself  by 
reflecting  that  those  I esteem,  if  they  think  of  me,  it  is  with 
their  wonted  regard.” 

Lord  Mortimer  was  affected  by  the  manner  in  which  she 
spoke,  his  e^^es  began  to  glisten,  and  he  was  again  declaring  he 
would  not  suffer  her  to  sacrifice  happiness  at  the  shrine  of  a 
too  scrupulous  and  romantic  generosity,  when  the  door  opened, 
and  the  prioress  and  Sister  Mary  (who  had  been  detained  in 
the  chapel  by  a long  discourse  from  the  priest)  entered,  bearing 
lights. 

Lord  Mortimer  started  in  much  confusion,  retreated  to  one- 
of  the  windows,  and  drew  out  his  handkerchief  to  conceal  the 
emotions  Amanda  had  excitedo  She  was  unable  to  speak  to 
the  prioress  and  Sister  Mary,  who  stared  round  them,  aud  then 
at  each  other,  not  certain  whether  they  should  advance  or 
retreat.  Lord  Mortimer  in  a few  moments  recovered  his  com- 
posure, and  advancing  to  the  prioress,  apologized  for  his  in- 
trusion into  her  apartment ; but  said  he  had  the  honor  of  being 
a friend  of  Miss  Fitzalan’s,  and  could  not  resist  his  wish  of 
inquiring  in  person  after  her  health  as  soon  as  he  arrived  in 
the  country. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


325 

The  prioress,  who  had  once  seen  a good  deal  of  the  polite 
world,  received  his  address  with  ease  and  complaisance.  Sister 
Mary  went  over  to  Amanda,  and  found  her  weak,  trembling, 
and  weeping.  She  expressed  the  utmost  concern  at  seeing 
her  in  such  a situation,  and  immediately  procured  her  a glass 
of  wine,  which  she  insisted  on  her  taking.  The  lights  now 
gave  Lord  Mortimer  an  opportunity  of  contemplating  the  dep- 
redations which  grief  and  sickness  had  made  upon  her.  Her 
pale  and  sallow  complexion,  her  heavy  and  sunken  eyes,  struck 
him  with  horror.  He  could  not  conceal  his  feelings.  ‘‘  Gracious 
Heaven  ! cried  he,  going  to  the  couch,  and  taking  her  hand, 
I fear  you  are  very  iWT 

She  looked  mournfully  in  his  face  without  speaking ; but 
this  look  was  sufficient  to  assure  him  he  was  not  mistaken. 
The  efforts  she  had  made  to  converse  with  him,  and  the  yet 
greater  efforts  she  made  to  banish  him  forever  from  her,  quite 
exhausted  her;  after  the  various  miseries'-she  had  gone  through, 
how  soothing  to  her  soul  would  have  been  the  attentions  of 
of  Lord  Mortimer,  how  pleasing,  how  delightful,  the  asylum  she 
should  have  found  in  his  arms  ! But  no  temptation,  no  distress, 
she  resolved,  should  ever  make  her  disobey  the  injunction  of  her 
adored  father. 

‘‘  She  is  very  bad  indeed/^  said  Sister  Mary,  and  we  must, 
get  her  to  bed  as  soon  as  possible.’’  She  requires  rest  and 
repose  indeed,”  said  Lord  Mortimer;  ^Hut  tell  me,  my  dear 
M^s  Fitzalan  (taking  her  hand),  if  I have  those  good  ladies’ 
permission  for  calling  here  to-morrow,  will  you,  it  able  to  rise,  see 
me  ? ” ‘‘  I cannot,  indeed,”  said  Amanda  ; I have  already 

declared  this  must  be  our  last  interview,  and  I shall  not  retract 
from  what  I have  said.”  ‘‘  Then,”  exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer, 
regardless,  or  rather  forgetful,  of  those  who  heard  him,  from 
the  agitation  and  warmth  of  his  feelings,  I shall,  in  one  re- 
spect at  least,  accuse  you  of  dissimulation,  that  of  feigning  a 
regard  for  me  you  never  felt.”  Such  an  accusation  is  now  of 
little  consequence,”  replied  Amanda  ; “ perhaps  you  had  better 
think  it  just.”  “ Cruel,  inexorable  girl,  to  refuse  seeing  me,  to 
wish  to  have  the  anxiety  which  now  preys  upon  my  heart 
prolonged  ! ” 

Young  man,”  said  the  prioress,  in  an  accent  of  displeas- 
ure, seeing  the  tears  streaming  down  Amanda’s  cheeks,  “ re- 
spect her  sorrows.” 

“ Respect  them,  madam,”  repeated  he  : Oh  ! Heaven,  I 
respect,  I venerate  them  ; but  will  you,  my  dear  lady,  when 
Miss  Fitzalan  is  able,  prevail  on  her  to  communicate  the  paT' 


^26  the  children-  of  the  abbey. 

tlculars  ot  our  acquaintance  3 and  will  you  then  become  my 
advDcate,  and  persuade  her  to  receive  ra}?' visits ? “ Impos* 
sible  sir/’  said  the  prioress,  I shall  never  attempt  to  desire 
larger  share  of  confidence  from  Miss  Fitzalan  dian  she  de^^hes 
to  bestow  upon  me.  From  my  knowledge  c£  her  I aui  con- 
vinced her  conduct  will  be  always  guided  by  discretion  3 she 
has  greatly  obliged  me  by  choosing  this  humbk  retreat  for  her 
lesidence  ; she  has  put  herself  under  m.y  protection,  and  i 
shall  endeavor  to  fulfil  that  sacred  trust  by  securing  her  from 
any  molestation.”  “Well,  madam,”  said  Lord  Mortimer,  “I 
flatter  myself  Miss  Fitzalan  will  do  me  justice  in  declaring  my 
visits  proceeded  from  wishes,  which,  though  she  may  disappoint, 
she  cannot  disapprove.  I shall  no  longer  intrude  upon  your 
time  or  hers,  but  will  still  hope  I shall  find  you  both  less  im 
flexible.’’ 

He  took  up  his  hat,  he  approached  the  door ; but  when  he 
glanced  at  Amanda,  he  could  not  depart  without  speaking  to 
her,  and  fegain  went  to  the  couch. 

Fie  entreated  her  to  compose  and  exert  herself ; he  desired 
her  forgiveness  for  any  w^armth  he  had  betrayed,  and  he  whis- 
pered to  her  that  all  his  earthly  happiness  depended  on  her  res- 
toration to  health,  and  her  becoming  his.  He  insisted  on  her 
now  giving  him  her  hand  as  a pledge  of  amity  between  them. 
She  complied  ; but  when  presuming  on  this  he  again  asked  her 
consent  to  repeat  his  visits,  he  found  her  inexorable  as  ever, 
and  retired,  if  not  with  a displeased,  a disappointed  countenanceo 
Sister  Mary  attended  him  from  the  apartment  At  the  door 
of  the  convent  he  requested  her  to  walk  a few  paces  from  it 
with  him,  saying  he  wanted  to  speak  to  her.  She  consented, 
and  remembering  he  was  the  person  who  frightened  her  one 
evening  amongst  the  ruins,  determined  now,  if  she  had  a good 
opportunity,  to  ask  what  had  then  brought  hir.  thither? 

Lord  Mortimer  knew  the  poverty  of  the  convent,  and  feared 
Amanda  might  want  many  things,  or  its  inhabiiants  be  distressed 
ro  procure  them  for  her ; he  therefore  pulled  out  a purse  and 
presenting  it  to  Sister  Mary,  requested  she  v/ould  apply  it  for 
Miss  Fitzalan’s  use,  without  mentioning  anything  aoout  it  to 
her.  Sister  Mary  shook  the  purse.  “ Oh  1 Jesu  Maria/' ex- 
claimed slie,  “ how  heavy  it  is  1 ” 

Lord  Mortimer  was  retiring,  when,  catching  hold  of  him, 
she  cried,  “ Stay,  stay,  I have  a word  or  two  to  say  to  you.  I 
wander  how  much  there  is  in  this  purse  ? ” 

Lord  Mortimer  smiled,  “ If  not  enough  for  the  prCiCiix 
emergencies,”  said  he,  “it  shall  soon  be  replenished/’ 


THE  CHILDREN^  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


327 

Sister  Mary  sat  down  on  a tombstone,  and  very  deliberately 
counted  the  money  into  her  lap.  Oh  ! mercy,’’  said  she,  “ I 
never  saw  so  many  guineas  together  before  in  all  my  life  1 ’’ 

Again  Lord  Mortimer  smiled^  and  was  retiring  ; but  again 
stopping  him,  she  returned  the  gold  into  the  purse,  and  de- 
clared, ^‘she  neither  would  nor  durst  keep  it.” 

Lord  Mortimer  was  provoked  at  this  declaration,  and,  with 
out  replying  to  it,  walked  on.  She  ran  nimbly  after  him,  and 
dropping  the  purse  at  his  feet,  w^as  out  of  sight  in  a moment. 
When  she  returned  to  the  prioress’s  apartment,  she  related  the 
incident,  and  took  much  merit  to  herself  for  acting  so  prudently. 
The  prioress  commended  her  very  much,  and  poor  Amanda, 
with  a faint  voice,  said,  ‘‘  she  had  acted  quite  right.” 

A little  room  inside  the  prioress’s  chamber  w^as  prepared  for 
Amanda,  into  wdiich  she  was  now  conveyed,  and  the  good- 
natured  Sister  Mary  brought  her  owm  bed,  and  laid  it  beside 
hers. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

“ With  dirges  due,  and  sad  array, 

Slow  through  the  church-way  path  I saw  him  borne.’* 

It  will  now  be  necessary  to  account  for  the  sudden  appear- 
ance of  Lord  Mortimer  at  the  convent.  Our  reader'  may  rec- 
ollect that  we  left  him  in  London,  in  the  deepest  affliction  for 
the  supposed  perfidy  of  Amanda — an  affliction  which  knevtr  no 
diminution  from  time  ; neither  the  tenderness  of  his  aunt,  Lady 
Martha  Dormer,  nor  the  kind  considerati  u his  father  showed 
for  him,  v/ho,  for  the  present,  ceased  to  importune  him  about 
Lady  Euphrasia,  could  have  any  lenient  effect  upon  him — he 
pined  in  thought,  and  felt  a distaste  to  all  society  He  at  last 
began  to  think,  that  though  Amanda  had  been  unhappily  led^ 
astray,  she  might,  ere  this,  have  repented  of  her  error,  and  for-i 
saken  Colonel  Belgrave.  To  know  whether  she  had  done  sol 
or  whether  she  could  be  prevailed  upon  to  give  him  up,  he  be-^ 
lieved,  would  be  an  lleviation  of  his  sorrows  No  sooner  had 
he  persuaded  himself  of  this,  than  he  determined  on  going  to 
Ireland,  without  delay,  to  visit  Captain  Fitzalan,  and,  if  she  was 
not  returned  to  his  protection,  advise  with  him  about  some 
method  of  restoring  her  to  it. 

He  told  Lord  Cherbury  he  thought  an  excursion  into 


THE  CHILD  RE  IT  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


328 

Wales  would  be  of  service  to  him.  His  lordship  agreed  in 
thinking  it  might,  and,  secretly  delighted  that  all  danger  rela- 
tive to  Amanda  was  over,  gladly  concurred  in  whatever  could 
please  his  son,  flattering  himself  that,  on  his  return  to  London, 
he  would  no  lodger  raise  any  objections  to  an  alliance  with  the 
fair  Scotch  heiress. 

Lord  Mortimer  travelled  with  as  much  expedition  to  Holy- 
head  as  if  certain  that  perfect  happiness,  not  a small  alleviation 
of  misery^  would  be  the  recompense  of  his  journey.  He  con- 
cealed from  his  aunt  the  real  motives  which  actuated  him  to  it, 
blushing,  even  to  himself,  at  the  weakness  which  he  still  felt  rel- 
ative to  Amanda.  When  he  crossed  the  water  he  again  set  off 
post,  attended  on  horseback  only  by  his  own  man.  Within  one 
mile  of  Castle  Carberry  he  met  the  little  mournful  procession 
approaching,  which  was  attending  poor  Fitzalan  to  his  last 
home.  The  carriage  stopped  to  let  them  pass,  and  in  the  last 
of  the  group  he  perceived  Johnaten,  who,  at  the  same  moment, 
recognized  him.  Johnaten,  with  much  surprise  in  his  counte- 
nance, stepped  up  to  the  carriage,  and,  after  bowing,  and 
humbly  hoping  his  lordship  was  well,  with  a melancholy  shake 
of  his  head  informed  him  whose  remains  he  was  following. 

Captain  Fitzalan  dead  1 ’’  repeated  Lord  Mortimer,  with  a 
face  as  pale  as  death,  and  a faltering  voice,  while  his  heart 
sunk  within  him  at  the  idea  that  his  father  was,  in  some  degree, 
accessory  to  the  fatal  event ; for,  just  before  he  left  London, 
Lord  Cherbury  had  informed  him  of  the  letter  he  wrote  to 
Fitzalan,  and  this,  he  believed,  joined  to  his  own  immediate 
family  misfortunes,  had  precipitated  him  from  the  world. 
‘‘Captain  Fitzalan  dead  ! ’Mie  exclaimed.  “Yes,  and  please 
you,  my  lord,’’  said  Johnaten,  \viping  away  a tear,  “and  he 
has  not  left  a better  or  a braver  man  behind  him.  Poor  gen^ 
tleman,  the  world  pressed  hard  upon  him.”  “ Had  he  no 
tender  friend  about  him  ? ” asked  Lord  Mortimer,  “ Were 
neither  of  his  children  with  him  ? ” “ Oh  1 yes  my  lord,  poor 

Miss  Amanda.”  “ She  was  with  him  ! ” said  Lord  Mortimer, 
in  an  eager  accent.  “Yes,  my  lord,  she  returned  here  about 
ten  days  ago,  but  so  sadly  altered,  I think  she  won’t  stay  long 
behind  him.  Poor  thing,  she  is  going  fast,  indeed,  and  the 
more’s  the  pity,  for  she  is  a sweet  creature.” 

Lord  Mortimer  was  inexpressibly  shocked.  He  wished  to 
hide  his  emotions,  and  waved  his  hand  to  Johnaten  to  depart; 
but  Johnaten  either  did  not,  or  would  not,  understand  the 
motion,  and  he  was  obliged,  in  broken  accents,  to  say,  “he 
would  no  lone:er  detain  him.” 


THE  CHILD  RE  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


329 


The  return  of  Amanda  was  to  him  a conviction  that  she 
had  en  her  error  in  its  true  light.  He  pictured  to  himself 
the  affecting  scene  which  must  have  ensued  between  a dying 
father  and  a penitent  daughter,  so  loved,  so  valued,  as  was 
Amanda  ; her  situation,  when  she  received  his  forgiveness  and 
benediction  ; he  represented  her  to  himself  as  at  once  bewail- 
ing the  loss  of  her  father,  and  her  offences,  endeavoring,  by 
prayers,  by  te.irs,  by  sighs,  to  obliterate  them,  in  the  sight  of 
Heaven,  and  render  herself  ht  to  receive  its  awful  fiat. 

He  heard  she  was  dying , his  soul  recoiled  at  the  idea  of 
seeing  her  shrouded  in  her  native  clay,  ano  yet  he  could  not 
help  believing  this  the  only  peaceful  as3dum  she  could  find,  to 
be  freed  from  the  shafts  of  contempt  and  malice  of  the  world 
He  trembled  lest  he  should  not  behold  the  lovely  penitent 
while  she  was  capable  of  observing  him  ; to  receive  a last 
•adieu,  though  dreadful,  would  yet,  he  thought,  lighten  the 
horrors  of  an  eternal  separation  and  perhaps,  too,  it  would  be 
some  comfort  to  her  departing  spirit  to  know  from  him  he  had 
pardoned  her ; and  conscious,  surely,  he  thought  to  himself, 
she  must  be  of  needing  pardon  from  him,  whom  she  had  so 
long  imposed  on  by  a specious  pretext  of  virtue.  He  had 
heard  from  Lord  Cherbury  that  Captain  Fitzalan  had  quitted 
the  castle ; he  knew  not,  therefore,  at  present,  where  to  find 
Amanda,  nor  did  he  choose  to  make  any  inquiries  till  he  agairs 
saw  Johnaten. 

As  scon  as  the  procession  was  out  of  sight,  he  alighted 
from  the  carriage,  and  ordering  his  man  to  discharge  it,  on 
arriving  at  Castle  Carberry,  he  took  a path  across  the  fields, 
which  brought  him  to  the  side  of  the  church-yard  where  Fitzalan 
was  to  be  interred o 

He  reachea  it  just  as  the  coffin  Vv^as  lowering  into  the  earth. 
A yew-tree,  growing  by  the  wall  against  which  he  leaned,  hid 
him  from  observation.  He  heard  many  of  the  rustics  mentioning 
the  merits  of  the  deceased  in  terms  of  warm,  though  artless, 
commendation,  and  he  saw  Johnaten  leceivlng  the  hat  and 
sword  (which,  as  military  tropliios,  he  had  laid  upon  the 
coffin),  with  a flood  of  tearSo 

When  the  chiu  Ji-yarr]  was  cleared,  stepped  across  the 
broken  wall  to  the  silent  rnansicu  of  i it::aian.  The  scene  was 
wild  and  dreary,  and  a lowering  evening  seemed  in  unison  with 
the  sad  objects  around.  Lord  Mortimer  w'as  sunk  in  the  deep- 
est despondence.  He  felt  awfully  convinced  of  the  instability 
of  human  attainments,  and  the  vanity  of  human  pursuits,  not 
cnly  from  the  ceremony  he  had  just  witnessed,  but  his  own 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


situation.  The  fond  hopes  of  his  heart,  the  gay  expectatic^s 
of  his  youth,  and  the  hilarity  of  his  soul,  were  blasted,  never, 
he  feared,  to  revive.  Virtue,  rank,  and  fortune,  advantages  so 
highly  prized  by  mankind,  were  unable  to  give  him  comfort,  to 
remove  the  malady  of  his  heart,  to  administer  one  oblivious 
antidote  to  a mind  diseased. 

Peace  to  thy  shade,  thou  unfortunate  soldier,”  exclaimed 
he,  after  standing  some  time  by  the  grave  with  folded  arms. 
‘‘Peace  to  thy  shade — peace  which  shall  reward  thee  for  a life 
of  toil  and  trouble.  Plappy  should  I have  deemed  myself,  had 
it  been  my  lot  to  have  lightened  thy  grief,  or  cheered  thy 
closing  hours.  But  those  who  were  dearer  to  thee  than  exist- 
ence I may  yet  serve,  and  thus  make  the  only  atonement  now 
in  my  power  for  the  injustice,  I fear,  was  done  thee.  Thy 
Amanda,  and  thy  gallant  son,  shall  be  m^y  care,  and  his  path,  I 
trust,  it  will  be  in  my  power  to  smooth  through  life.” 

A tear  fell  from  Lord  Mortimer  upon  the  grave,  and  he 
turned  mournfully  from  it  towards  Castle  Carberry.  Plere 
Johnaten  was  arrived  before  him,  and  had  already  a large  fxre 
lighted  in  the  dressing-rocm  poor  Amanda,  on  coming  to  the 
castle,  had  chosen  for  herself.  Johnaten  fixed  on  this  for 
Lord  Mortimer,  as  the  parlors  had  been  shut  up  ever  since 
Captain  Fitzalan’s  departure,  and  could  not  be  put  in  any 
order  till  the  next  day  ; but  it  w;is  the  worst  place  Lord  Morti- 
mer could  have  entered,  as  not  only  itself  but  everything  in  it 
reminded  him  of  Amanda  ; and  the  grief  it  excited  at  his  first 
entrance  was  so  violent  as  to  alarm  not  only  his  man  (who  was 
spreading  a table  with  refreshments),  but  Johnaten,  who  was 
assisting  him.  Lie  soon  checked  it,  however ; but  when  he 
again  looked  round  the  room,  and  beheld  it  ornamented  with 
works  done  by  Amanda,  he  could  scarcely  prevent  another 
burst  of  grief  as  violent  as  the  first* 

Lie  now  learned  Amanda’s  residence  ; and  so  great  was  his 
impatience  to  see  her  that,  apprehensive  the  convent  would 
soon  be  closed,  he  set  off,  fatigued  as  he  was,  without  recruit- 
ing himself  with  any  refreshment.  Lie  intended  to  ask  for  one 
of  the  ladies  of  St.  Catherine’s,  and  entreat  her,  if  Amanda 
was  then  in  a situation  to  be  seen,  to  announce  his  arrival  to 
her  ; but  after  rapping  repeatedly  with  a rattan  against  the 
door,  the  only  person  who  appeared  to  him  was  a servant  girl 
From  her  he  learned  the  ladies  were  all  in  the  chapel,  and  that 
Miss  Fitzalan  was  in  the  prioress’s  apartment.  He  asked, 
“Was  she  too  ill  to  be  seen  ” The  girl  replied,  “ No  ” — for 
having  only  entered  the  room  to  leave  the  kettle  in  it,  at  a 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


33  ^ 


time  when  Amanda  was  composed,  she  imagined  she  was  very 
well.  Lord  Mortimer  then  told  her  his  name,  and  desired  her 
to  go  up  to  Miss  Fitzalan  and  inquire  whether  she  would  see 
him.  The  girl  attempted  not  to  move.  She  was  in  reality  so 
struck  of  a heap  by  hearing  that  she  had  been  talking  to  a 
lord,  that  she  knew  not  whether  she  was  standing  on  her  head 
or  her  heels.  Lord  Mortimer  imputing  her  silence  to  disin- 
clination to  comply  with  his  request,  put  a guinea  into  her 
hand,  and  entreated  her  to  be  expeditious.  This  restored  her 
to  animation,  but  ere  she  reached  the  room  she  forgot  his  title, 
and  being  ashamed  to  deliver  a blundering  message  to  Miss 
Fitzalan,  or  to  appear  stupid  to  Lord  Mortimer,  she  returned 
to  him,  pretending  she  had  delivered  his  message,  and  that  he 
might  go  up.  She  showed  him  the  door,  and  when  he  entered 
he  imputed  the  silence  of  Amanda,  and  her  not  moving,  to 
the  effects  of  her  grief.  He  advanced  to  the  couch,  and  was 
not  a little  shocked  on  seeing  her  eyes  closed — concluding  from 
this  that  she  had  fainted,  but  her  easy  respiration  soon  con- 
vinced him  that  this  was  a mistake,  and  he  immediately  con- 
cluded that  the  girl  had  deceived  him.  He  leaned  over  her 
till  she  began  to  stir,  and  then  retreated  behind  her,  lest  his 
presence,  on  her  first  awaking,  should  alarm  her. 

What  took  place  in  the  interview  between  them  has  already 
been  related.  Notwithstanding  appearances  were  so  much 
against  hei,  and  no  explanation  had  ensued  relative  to  them, 
from  the  moment  she  asserted  her  innocence  with  solemnity 
he  could  no  longer  doubt  it ; and  yielding  at  once  to  its  con- 
viction, to  his  love,  to  his  pity  for  her,  he  again  renewed  his 
overtures  for  a union.  Hearing  of  the  stratagems  laid  for  her 
destruction,  the  dangers  she  had  escaped,  the  <listresses  she 
had  experienced,  made  him  more  anxious  than  ever  for  com-' 
pleting  it,  that  by  his  constant  protection  he  might  secure  liei 
from  similar  trials,  and  by  his  tenderness  and  care  restore  hei 
to  health,  peace,  and  happiness.  Fie  longed  for  the  period  of 
her  triumphing  over  the  perfidious  marchioness,  and  the  detesh 
able  Lady  Euphrasia,  by  being  raised  to  that  station  they  had 
so  long  attempted  to  prevent  her  attaining,  and  thus  proving 
to  them  that  virtue,  sooner  or  later,  Vvdll  counteract  the  designs 
of  vice.  He  felt  a degree  of  rapture  at  the  idea  of  his  being 
no  longer  obliged  to  regret  the  ardent,  the  unabated  affection 
he  felt  for  her.  His  transports  were  somewhat  checked  when 
she  solemnly  declared  a union  between  them  impossible,  and 
forbade  his  seeing  her  again.  He  was  pique’d  by  the  steadi- 
ness with  which  she  repeated  this  resolution,  but  her  present 


332 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY,  ' 


weak  state  prevented  his  betraying  any  resentment,  and  he 
flattered  himself  he  would  be  able  to  conquer  her  obstinacy. 
He  could  not  now,  indeed,  despair  of  any  event  after  the  un- 
expected restoration  of  Amanda  to  his  esteem,  and  the  revival 
of  those  hopes  of  felicity,  which  in  the  certainty  of  having 
lost  her  had  faded  away.  He  returned,  as  Johnaten  said,  an 
altered  man,  to  the  castle.  He  no  longer  experienced  horror 
at  entering  the  dressing-room  which  displayed  so  many  vestiges 
of  his  Amanda’s  taste. 

He  resolved  on  an  immediate  union  as  the  surest  proof  he 
could  give  her  of  his  perfect  confidence  in  her  sincerity,  not 
allowing  himself  to  suppose  she  would  continue  firm  in  the 
resolution  she  had  recently  avowed  to  him.  He  then  intended 
setting  off  for  London,  and  sparing  neither  time,  trouble  nor 
expense,  to  obtain  from  the  inferior  agents  in  the  plot  laid 
against  her,  a full  avowal  of  the  part  they  had  themselves  acted 
in  it,  and  all  they  knew  relative  to  those  performed  by  others. 
This  was  not  designed  for  his  own  satisfaction.  He  wanted 
no  confirmation  of  what  Amanda  asserted,  as  his  proposal  to 
marry  her  immediately  demonstrated  ; it  was  to  cover  with  con- 
fusion those  who  had  meditated  her  destruction,  and  add  to  the 
horrors  they  would  experience  when  they  found  her  emerging 
from  obscurity — not  as  Miss  Fitolan,  but  as  Lady  Mortimer. 
Such  proofs  of  her  innocence  would  also  prevent  malice  from 
saying  he  was  the  dupe  of  art,  and  he  was  convinced,  for  both 
their  sakes,  it  was  requisite  to  procure  them.  He  would  then 
avow  his  marriage,  return  for  his  wife,  introduce  her  to  his 
friends,  and,  if  his  father  kept  up  any  resentment  against  them 
longer  than  he  expected,  he  knew  in  Lady  Martha  Dormer’s 
house,  and  at  Tudor  Hall,  he  would  find  not  only  an  eligible, 
but  pleasant  residence.  Those  delightful  schemes  kept  him 
awake  half  the  night,  and  when  he  fell  asleep  it  was  only  to 
dream  of  happiness  and  Amanda. 

In  the  morning,  notwithstanding  the  prohibition  he  had  re- 
ceived to  the  contrary,  he  went  to  inquire  how  she  was,  and  to 
try  and  see  her.  The  girl  who  had  answered  his  repeated  knocks 
the  preceding  evening,  appeared,  and  told  him  Miss  Fitzalan 
was  very  bad.  He  began  to  think  that  this  must  be  a pretext 
to  avoid  seeing  him,  and  to  come  at  the  truth  was  slipping  a 
bribe  into  her  hand,  when  Sister  Mary,  who  had  been  watching 
them  from  an  adjoining  room,  appeared,  and  stopped  this 
measure.  She  repeated  what  the  girl  had  just  said,  and,  in 
addition  to  it,  declared  that  even  if  Miss  Fitzalan  was  up  she 
would  not  see  him,  and  that  he  must  come  no  more  to  St. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


333 


Catherine’s,  as  both  Miss  Fitzalan  and  the  prioress  would  re- 
sent such  conduct  exceedingly  ; and  that,  if  he  wanted  to  in- 
quire after  the  health  of  the  former,  he  might  easily  send  a 
servant,  and  it  would  be  much  better  done  than  to  come  frisk- 
ing over  there  every  moment. 

Lord  Mortimer  was  seriously  displeased  with  this  uncere- 
monious speech.  “ So,  I suppose,”  cried  he,  you  want  to 
make  a real  nun  of  Miss  Fitzalan,  and  to  keep  her  from  all 
conversation.”  ‘‘  And  a happy  creature  she  would  be  were  she 
to  become  one  of  us,”  replied  Sister  Mary ; and  as  to  keep- 
ing her  from  conversation,  she  might  have  as  much  as  she 
pleased  with  any  one.  Indeed,  I believe  the  poor  thing  likes 
you  well  enough ; the  more’s  her  misfortune  for  doing  so.” 

I thank  you,  madam,”  cried  Lord  Mortimer ; ‘‘  I suppose  it 
one  of  your  vows  to  speak  truth ; if  so,  I must  acknowledge 
you  keep  it  religiously.”  “ I have  just  heard  her,”  proceeded 
Sister  Mary,  without  minding  what  he  had  said,  tell  the  pri- 
oress a long  story  about  you  and  herself,  by  which  I find  it  was 
her  father’s  desire  she  should  have  nothing  more  to  say  to  you, 
and  I dare  say  the  poor  gentleman  had  good  reasons  for  doing 
so.  I beg,  n>y  lord,  you  will  come  no  more  here,  and,  indeed, 
I think  it  was  a shame  for  you  to  give  money  to  the  simple- 
ton who  answered  you.  Why,  it  is  enough  to  turn  the  girl’s 
head,  and  set  her  mad  after  one  fal-lal  or  other.” 

Lord  Mortimer  could  not  depart  without  an  effort  to  win 
Sister  Mary  over  to  his  favor,  and  engage  her  to  try  ^d  per- 
suade Miss  Fitzalan  to  permit  his  visits,  but  she  was  innexible  ; 
he  then  entreated  to  know  if  Amanda  was  so  ill  as  to  be  unable 
to  rise.  She  assured  him  she  was,  and,  as  some  little  consola- 
tion to  the  distress  she  perceived  this  assurance  gave  him,  said 
he  might  send  when  he  pleased  to  inquire  after  her  health,  and 
she  would  take  care  to  answer  the  messenger  herself. 

Lord  Mortimer  began  now  to  be  seriously  alarmed  lest  Cap- 
tain Fitzalan  had  prevailed  on  his  daughter  to  make  a solemn 
renunciation  of  him.  If  this  was  the  case,  he  knew  nothing 
could  prevail  on  her  to  break  her  promise.  He  was  half  dis- 
tracted with  doubt  and  anxiety,  which  were  scarcely  support- 
able, when  he  reflected  that  they  could  not  for  some  time  be 
satisfied,  since,  even  if  he  v/rote  to  her  for  that  purpose,  she 
could  not  at  present  be  able  to  answer  his  letter ; again  he  felt 
convinced  of  the  instability  of  earthly  happiness,  and  the  close 
connection  there  has  ever  been  between  pleasure  and  pain. 


334 


THe  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  . 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

“ Thy  presence  only  ’tis  can  make  me  blest, 

Heal  my  unquiet  mind,  and  tune  my  soul.” — Otway. 

The  fatigue,  distress,  and  agitation  of  Amanda  could  no 
longer  be  struggled  with  ; she  sunk  beneath  their  violence,  and 
for  a week  was  confined  to  her  bed  by  the  fever  which  had 
seized  her  in  England,  and  ever  since  lurked  in  her  veins. 
The  whole  sisterhood,  who  took  it  in  turn  to  attend  her,  vied 
with  each  other  in  kindness  and  care  to  the  poor  invalid. 
Their  efforts  for  her  recovery  were  aided  by  a skilful  physician 
from  the  next  town,  who  called,  without  being  sent  for,  at  the 
convent.  He  said  he  had  known  Captain  Fitzalan,  and  that, 
hearing  that  Miss  Fitzalan  was  indisposed,  he  had  come  in 
hopes  he  might  be  of  service  to  the  daughter  of  a man  he  so 
much  esteemed.  He  would  accept  of  no  fee,  and  the  prioress, 
who  was  a woman  of  sagacity,  suspected,  as  well  as  Amanda, 
that  he  came  by  the  direction  of  Lord  Mortimer.  Nor  were 
they  mistaken,  for,  distracted  by  apprehensions  about  her,  he 
had  taken  this  method  of  lightening  his  fears,  flattering  himself, 
by  the  excellent  advice  he  had  procured,  her  recovery  would  be 
much  expedited,  and,  of  course,  his  suspense  at  least  terminated 
The  doctor  did  not  withdraw  his  visits  when  Amanda  was  able 
to  rise  ; he  attended  her  punctually,  and  often  paid  her  long 
visits,  which  were  of  infinite  service  to  her  spirits,  as  he  was 
a man  of  much  information  and  cheerfulness.  In  a few  days 
she  was  removed  from  her  chamber  into  a pleasant  room  below 
stairs,  which  opened  into  the  garden,  where,  leaning  on  the 
friendly  doctor’s  arm,  or  one  of  the  nuns’,  she  walked  at  differ- 
ent times  a few  minutes  each  day.  Lord  Mortimer,  on  hearing 
this,  thought  he  might  now  solicit  an  interview,  and  accordingly 
wrote  for  that  purpose  : — 

TO  MISS  FITZALAN. 

Lord  Mortimer  presents  his  compliments  to  Miss  Fitzalan,  flatters  him- 
self she  will  allow  him  personally  to  express  the  sincere  happiness  her  res- 
toration to  health  has  afforded  him.  He  cannot  think  she  will  refuse  so 
reasonable  a request.  He  is  almost  convinced  she  would  not  hesitate  a 
moment  in  granting  it,  could  she  form  an  idea  of  the  misery  he  has  experi- 
enced on  her  account,  and  the  anxiety  he  feels,  and  must  continue  to  feel, 
till  some  expressions  in  the  last  interview  are  explained. 

Castle  Car  berry,  loth  May. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


335 


This  letter  greatly  distressed  Amanda.  She  had  hoped  the 
pain  of  again  rejecting  his  visits  and  requests  would  have  been 
spared  her.  She  guessed  at  the  expressions  he  alluded  to  in 
his  letter ; they  were  those  she  had  dropped  relative  to  her 
promise  to  her  father,  and  from  the  impetuous  and  tender  feel- 
ings of  Lord  Mortimer  she  easily  conceived  the  agony  he  would 
experience  when  he  found  this  promise  inviolable.  She  felt 
more  for  his  distress  than  her  own.  Her  heart,  seasoned  in 
the  school  of  adversity,  could  bear  its  sorrows  with  calmness  ; 
but  this  was  not  his  case,  and  she  paid  the  tribute  of  tears  to  a 
love  so  fervent,  so  faithful,  and  so  hopeless. 

She  then  requested  Sister  Mary  to  acquaint  his  messenger 
that  she  received  no  visits  ; that,  as  she  was  tolerably  recovered, 
she  entreated  his  lordship  would  not  take  the  trouble  of  con- 
tinuing his  inquiries  about  her  health,  or  to  send  her  any  more 
written  messages,  as  she  was  unable  to  answer  them.  The 
prioress,  who  was  present  when  she  received  the  letter,  com- 
mended her  exceedingly  for  the  fortitude  and  discretion  she 
had  manifested.  Amanda  had  deemed  it  necessary  to  inform 
her,  after  the  conversation  she  heard  between  her  and  Lord 
Mortimer,  of  the  terms  on  which  they  stood  with  each  other ; 
and  the  prioress,  who  doubted  whether  his  lordship  was  in 
reality  as  honorable  as  he  professed  himself,  thought  Amanda 
on  the  sure  side  in  declining  his  visits. 

The  next  morning  the  doctor  called  as  usual.  He  told 
Amanda  he  had  brought  her  an  entertaining  b®ok,  for  no  such 
thing  could  be  procured  at  St.  Catherine's,  and,  as  she  had  ex- 
pressed her  regret  at  this,  from  the  time  she  had  been  able  to 
read  he  had  supplied  her  from  his  library,  which  was  extensive 
and  well  chosen. 

He  did  not  present  it  to  her  till  he  was  retiring,  and  then 
said,  with  a significant  smile,  she  would  find  it  contained  some- 
thing worthy  of  her  particular  attention.  Amanda  was  alone, 
and  immediately  opened  it.  Great  was  her  astonishment  when 
a letter  dropped  from  it  into  her  lap.  She  snatched  it  up,  and, 
perceiving  the  direction  in  Lord  Mortimer’s  hand,  she  hesitated 
whether  she  should  open  a letter  conveyed  in  this  manner ; 
but  to  return  it  unopened  was  surely  a slight  Lord  Mortimer 
merited  not,  and  she  broke  the  seal  with  a trembling  hand  and 
a palpitating  heart : — 

Unkind  Amanda,  to  compel  me  to  use  stratagems  in  writing  to  you,  and 
destroy  the  delightful  hopes  which  had  sprung  in  my  soul,  at  the  prospect  of 
being  about  to  receive  a reward  for  my  sufferings.  Am  I ever  to  be  involved 
in  doubts  and  perplexity  on  your  account  ? Am  I ever  to  see  difficulty  suo 
c«eded  by  difficulty,  and  hope  by  disappointment  f 


THR  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


336 

You  must  be  sensible  of  the  anxiety  I shall  feel,  until  your  ambiguous  j 
expressions  are  fully  explained,  and  yet  you  refuse  this  explanation  ! But/ 
you  have  no  pity  for  my  feelings.  Would  it  not  be  more  generous  in  you  t^ 
permit  an  interview  than  to  keep  me  in  suspense  ? To  know  the  worst  is 
some  degree  of  ease  ; besides,  I should  then  have  an  opportunity  of  perhafis 
convincing  you  that  virtue,  unlike  vice,  has  its  bounds,  and  that  we  mky 
sometimes  carry  our  notions  of  honor  and  generosity  too  far,  and  sacrifice  our 
real  happiness  to  chimerical  ideas  of  them.  Surely  I shall  not  be  too  pre- 
sumptuous in  saying  that,  if  the  regard  Amanda  once  flattered  me  with  is 
undiminished,  she  will,  by  rejecting  a union  with  me,  leave  me  not  the  only 
sufferer. 

Oh  ! do  not,  my  dear  and  too  scrupulous  girl,  think  a moment  longer  of 
persevering  in  a resolution  so  prejudicial  to  your  welfare.  Your  situation  re- 
quires particular  protection  : young,  innocent,  and  beautiful  ; already  the  ob- 
ject of  licentious  pursuits  ; your  nearest  relations  your  greatest  enemies  ; your 
brother,  from  his  unsettled  line  of  life,  unable  to  be  near  you.  Oh!  my 
Amanda,  from  such  a situation  what  evils  may  accrue  ? Avoid  them,  by 
taking  refuge  in  his  arms,  who  will  be  to  you  a tender  friend  and  faithful 
guardian.  Before  such  evils,  the  obligation  for  keeping  a promise  to  reject 
me,  fade  away,  particularly  when  the  motives  which  led  to  such  a promise 
are  considered.  Captain  Fitzalan,  hurt  by  the  unfortunate  letter  he  received 
from  my  father,  extended  his  resentment  to  his  son,  and  called  upon  you 
without  reflecting  on  the  consequences  of  such  a measure  to  give  me  up. 
This  is  the  only  reason  I can  conceive  for  his  desiring  such  a promise,  and 
had  I but  arrived  while  he  could  have  listened  to  my  arguments,  I am  firmly 
convinced,  instead  of  opposing,  he  would  have  sanctioned  our  union,  and 
given  his  beloved  girl  to  a man  who,  in  every  instance,  would  study  to  evince 
his  gratitude  for  such  a gift,  and  to  supply  his  loss. 

Happiness,  my  dear  Amanda,  is  in  long  arrears  with  us.  She  is  now 
ready  to  make  up  for  past  deficiencies,  if  it  is  not  our  own  faults  ; let  us  not 
frighten  her  from  performing  her  good  intentions,  but  hand  in  hand  receive 
the  lovely  and  long  absent  guest  to  our  bosoms. 

You  will  not,  cannot,  must  not,  be  inflexible ; I shall  expect,  as  soon  as 
you  read  this,  a summons  to  St.  Catherine’s  to  receive  the  ratification  of  my 
hopes.  In  everything  respecting  our  union  I will  be  guided  by  you,  except 
delaying  it ; what  we  have  both  suffered  already  from  deceit  makes  me 
doubly  anxious  to  secure  you  mine,  lest  another  vile  scheme  should  be 
formed  to  effect  our  separation. 

Oh!  Amanda,  the  faintest  prospect  of  calling  you  mine  gives  to  my 
heart  a felicity  no  language  can  express.  Refuse  not  being  mine  except  you 
bring  me  an  addition  of  fortune  ; already  rich  in  every  virtue,  I shall,  in 
obtaining  you,  obtain  a treasure  which  the  wealthiest,  the  proudest,  and 
the  vainest  of  the  sons  of  men  may  envy  me  the  possession  of,  and  which 
the  good,  the  sensible,  and  elegant,  must  esteem  the  kindest  gift  indulgent 
heaven  could  bestow  on  me.  Banish  all  uneasy  doubts  and  scruples,  my 
Amanda,  from  your  mind,  nor  think  a promise,  which  was  demanded  with- 
out reflecting  on  the  consequences  that  must  attend  it,  can  be  binding.  The 
ingenuous  soul  of  your  father  would  have  cancelled  it  in  a moment,  had  those 
consequences  been  represented  to  him  ; and  now,  when  our  own  reason  con- 
vinces us  of  them,  I make  no  doubt,  if  departed  souls  are  pennitted  to  view 
the  transactions  of  this  world,  his  spirit  would  behold  our  union  with  appro- 
bation. Yes,  my  Amanda,  I repeat  your  father’s  approving  spirit  will  smile 
upon  an  act  which  gives  to  his  lovely  and  beloved  orphan  a faithful  friend 
and  steady  protector,  in  her  adoring  Mortimer. 

Castle  Carberry,  iith  May 


THE  CHILD KEH  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


ZZl 


This  letter  deeply  affected  the  sensibility,  but  could  not 
.shake  the  resolution  of  Amanda.  She  would  not  have  answered 
it,  as  she  considered  any  correspondence  an  infringement  on 
the  promises  she  had  given  her  father  to  decline  any  further  in- 
timacy with  him ; but  from  the  warmth  and  agitation  displayed 
in  his  letter,  it  was  evident  to  her  that,  if  he  did  not  receive  an 
immediate  answer  to  it,  he  would  come  to  St.  Catherine’s  and 
insist  on  seeing  her ; and  she  felt  assured,  that  she  could  much 
better  deliver  her  sentiments  upon  paper  than  to  him  ; she  ac- 
cordingly wrote  as  follows  : — • 

TO  LORD  MORTIMER. 

My  Lord, — You  cannot  change  my  resolution  ; surely,  when  I solemnly 
declare  to  you  it  is  unalterable,  you  will  spare  me  any  further  importunity 
on  so  painful  a subject.  In  vain,  my  lord,  would  you,  by  sophistry,  cloaked 
with  tenderness  for  that  purpose,  try  to  influence  me.  The  arguments  you 
have  made  use  of,  I am  convinced,  you  never  would  have  adopted,  had  you 
not  been  mistaken  in  regard  to  those  motives  which  prompted  my  father  to 
ask  a promise  from  me  of  declining  any  farther  connection  with  you.  It  was 
not  from  resentment,  my  lord  ; no,  his  death  was  then  fast  approaching,  and 
he,  in  charity  for  all  mankind,  forgave  those  who  had  wounded  him  by  un- 
just reproach  and  accusation  ; it  was  a proper  respect  for  his  own  character, 
and  not  resentment,  which  influenced  his  conduct,  as  he  w'as  convinced  if  I 
consented  to  an  alliance  with  you,  LordCherbury  would  be  confirmed  in  all 
the  suspicions  he  entertained  of  his  having  entangled  you  with  me,  and  con- 
sequently load  his  memory  with  contempt.  Tenderness  also  for  me  actu- 
ated him  ; he  was  acquainted  with  the  proud  heart  of  Lord  Cherbury,  and 
knew  that  if,  poor  and  reduced  as  I was,  I entered  his  family,  I should  be 
considered  and  treated  as  a mean  intruder.  So  thoroughly  am  I convinced 
that  he  did  not  err  in  this  idea,  that,  whenever  reason  is  predominant  in  my 
mind,  I think,  even  if  a promise  did  not  exist  for  such  a purpose,  I should 
decline  your  addresses ; for,  though  I could  submit  with  cheerfulness  to 
many  inconveniences  for  your  sake,  I never  could  support  indignities.  We 
must  part,  my  lord ; Providence  has  appointed  different  paths  for  us  to 
pursue  in  life  s yours  smooth  and  flowery,  if  by  useless  regrets  you  do  not 
frustrate  the  intentions  of  the  benevolent  Donor;  mine  rough  and  thorny; 
but  both,  though  so  different,  will  lead  to  the  same  goal,  where  we  shall 
again  meet  to  be  no  more  separated. 

Let  not  your  lordship  deem  me  either  unkind  or  ungrateful ; my  heart 
disavows  the  justice  of  such  accusations,  and  is  but  too  sensible  of  your  ten- 
derness and  generosity.  Yes,  my  lord,  I will  confess  that  no  pangs  can  be 
more  pungent  than  those  which  now  rend  it,  at  being  obliged  to  act  against'; 
its  feelings;  but  the  greater  the  sacrifice  the  greater  the  merit  of  submitting 
to  it,  and  a ray  of  self-approbation  is  perhaps  the  only  sunshine  of  the  soul 
which  will  brighten  my  future  days. 

Never,  my  lord,  should  I enjoy  this,  if  my  promise  to  my  father  was 
violated.  There  is*  but  one  circumstance  which  could  set  it  aside,  that  is, 
having  a fortune,  that  even  Lord  Cherbury  might  deem  equivalent  to  3^our 
own  to  bring  you;  for  then  my  father  has  often  said  he  would  approve  our 
union  ; but  this  is  amongst  the  improbabilities  of  this  life,  and  we  must  en- 
deavor to  reconcile  ourselves  to  the  destiny  which  separates  us. 

I hope  your  lordship  will  not  attempt  to  me  again  ; \om  must  be  sen 


THE  CHILD  EE H OF  THE  ABBEY. 


33S 

sible  that  your  visits  would  be  highly  injurious  to  me.  Even  the  holy  and 
solitary  asylum  which  I have  found  would  not  protect  me  from  the  malicff 
which  has  already  been  so  busy  with  my  peace  and  fame.  Alas ! I now 
need  the  utmost  vigilance — deprived  as  I am  of  those  on  whom  I had  claim 
of  protection,  it  behoves  me  to  exert  the  utmost  circumspection  in  mfy  con- 
duct ; he  in  whom  I expected  to  have  found  a guardian,  Oscar,  my  dear  un- 
fortunate brother,  is  gone,  I know  not  whither,  persecuted  and  afflicted  by 
the  perfidious  monster  who  has  been  such  a source  of  misery  to  me  1 Oh, 
my  lord,  when  I think  what  his  sufferings  may  now  be,  my  heart  sinks 
within  me.  Oh  ! had  I been  the  only  sufferer  1 should  not  have  felt  so  great 
a degree  of  agony  as  I now  endure  ; but  I will  not  despair  about  my  dear 
Oscar.  The  Providence  which  has  been  so  kind  to  his  sister,  which  so  un- 
expectedly raised  her  friends  at  the  moment  she  deemed  herself  deprived  of 
all  earthly  comfort,  may  to  him  have  been  equally  merciful.  I have  tres- 
passed a long  time  upon  your  lordship’s  attention,  but  I wished  to  be  ex- 
plicit, to  avoid  the  necessity  of  any  further  correspondence  between  us.  You 
now  know  my  resolves  ; you  also  know  my  feelings ; in  pity  to  them  spare 
me  any  further  conflicts.  May  the  tranquil  happiness  you  so  truly  deserve 
soon  be  yours!  Do  not,  my  lord,  because  disappointed  in  one  wish,  lose 
your  sense  of  the  many  valuable  blessings  with  which  you  are  surrounded, 
in  fulfilling  the  claims  wdiich  your  friends,  your  country,  have  upon  you ; 
show  how  truly  you  merit  those  blessings,  and  banish  all  useless  regrets 
from  your  heart.  Adieu,  my  lord ! — suffer  no  uneasiness  on  my  account. 
If  Heaven  prolongs  my  life,  I have  no  doubt  but  I shall  find  a little  com- 
fortable shelter  from  the  world,  where,  conscious  I have  acted  according  to 
my  principles  of  right,  I shall  enj'oy  the  serenity  which  ever  attends  self-ap- 
probation— a serenity  which  no  changes  or  chances  in  this  life  will,  I trust, 
ever  wrest  from  Amanda  Fitzalan. 

St.  Catherine’s,  May  12th. 

She  dispatched  this  by  an  old  man  who  was  employed  in 
the  garden  at  St.  Catherine’s ; but  her  spirits  were  so  much  af- 
fected by  writing  it,  she  was  obliged  to  go  up  and  lie  on  the 
bed.  She  considered  herself  as  having  taken  a final  adieu  of 
Lord  Mortimer,  and  the  idea  was  too  painful  to  be  supported 
with  fortitude.  Tender  and  fervent  as  his  attachment  was  now 
to  her,  she  believed  the  hurry  and  bustle  of  the  world,  in  which 
he  must  be  engaged,  would  soon  eradicate  it.  A transfer  of 
his  affections,  to  one  equal  to  himself  in  rank  and  fortune,  was 
a probable  event,  and  of  course  a total  expulsion  of  her  from 
his  memory  would  follow.  A deadly  coldness  stole  upon  her 
heart  at  the  idea  of  being  forgotten  by  him,  and  produced  a 
flood  of  tears.  She  then  began  to  accuse  herself  of  inconsist- 
ency, She  had  often  thought,  if  Lord  Mortimer  was  restored 
to  happiness,  she  should  feel  more  tranquil.  And  nowq  when 
the  means  of  effecting  this  restoration  occurred,  she  trembled 
and  lamented  as  if  it  w^ould  increase  her  misery.  ‘‘  I am  self- 
ish,” said  she  to  herself,  ‘‘  in  desiring  the  prolongation  of  an 
affection  which  must  ever  be  hopeless,  I am  weak  in  regret- 
ting the  probability  o£  its  transfer,  as  I can  never  return  it  ” 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


339 


To  conquer  those  feelings,  she  found  she  must  banish  Lord 
Mortimer  from  her  thoughts.  Except  she  succeeded  in  some 
degree  in  this,  she  felt  she  never  should  be  able  to  exert  the 
fortitude  her  present  situation  demanded.  She  now  saw  a 
probability  of  her  existence  being  prolonged,  and  the  bread  of 
idleness  or  dependence  could  never  be  sweet  to  Amanda 
Eitzalan. 

She  had  lain  about  an  hour  on  the  bed,  and  was  about  ris- 
ing and  returning  to  the  parlor,  when  Sister  Mary  entered  the 
chamber,  and  delivered  her  a letter.  Ere  Amanda  looked  at 
the  superscription,  her  agitated  heart  foretold  her  whom  it 
came  from.  She  was  not  mistaken  in  her  conjecture  ; but  as 
she  held  it  in  her  hand,  she  hesitated  whether  she  should  open 
it  or  not.  ‘‘  Yet,’’  said  she  to  herself,  ‘‘  it  can  be  no  great  harm. 
He  cannot,  after  what  I have  declared,  suppose  my  resolution 
to  be  shaken.  He  writes  to  assure  me  of  his  perfect  acquies- 
cence to  it.”  Sister  Mary  left  her  at  the  instant  her  delibera- 
tions ended,  by  opening  the  letter, 

TO  MISS  FITZALAN*. 

Inexorable  Amanda  1 but  I will  spare  both  you  and  myself  the  pain  of 
farther  importunity.  All  I now  request  is,  that  for  three  months  longer  at 
least,  you  will  ccntinue  at  St.  Catherine’s  ; or  that,  if  you  find  a much  longer 
residence  there  unpleasant,  you  will,  on  quitting  it,  leave  directions  where 
to  be  found.  Ere  half  the"  above-mentioned  period  be  elapsed,  I trust  I 
shall  be  able  satisfactorily  to  account  for  such  a request.  I am  quitting 
Castle  Carberry  immediately.  I shall  leave  it  with  a degree  of  tranquillity 
that  would  perhaps  surprise  you,  after  what  has  so  lately  passed,  if  in  this 
one  instance  you  will  oblige  your  ever  faithful  Mortimer. 

This  laconic  letter  astonished  Amanda.  By  its  style  it  was 
evident  Lord  Mortimer  had  recovered  his  cheerfulness — re- 
covered it  not  from  a determination  of  giving  her  up,  but  from 
a hope  of  their  again  meeting,  as  they  could  both  wish.  A 
sudden  transport  rushed  upon  her  heart  at  such  an  idea,  but 
quickly  died  away  when  she  reflected  it  was  almost  beyond  the 
possibility  of  things  to  bring  about  a pleasing  interview  between 
them.  She  knew  Lord  Mortimer  had  a sanguine  temper,  and 
though  it  might  mislead  him,  she  resolved  it  should  not  mislead 
her.  She  could  not  form  the  most  distant  surmise  of  what  he 
had  now  in  agitation ; but  whatever  it  was,  she  firmly  believed 
it  would  end  in  disappointment.  To  refuse  every  request  of  his 
was  painful ; but  propriety  demanded  she  should  not  accede  to 
the  last,  for  one  step,  she  wisely  considered,  from  the  line  of 
prudence  she  had  marked  out  for  herself  to  take,  might  plunge 


340 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  - 


her  in  difficulties  from  which  she  would  find  it  impossible  to 
extricate  herself.  With  an  unsteady  hand  she  returned  the  fol- 
lov/ing  answer : — 

TO  LORD  MORTIMER. 

My  Lord, — I cannot  comply  with  your  request.  You  may,  if  you  please, 
repeat  inexorable  Amanda.  I had  rather  incur  the  imputation  of  obstinacy 
than  imprudence,  and  think  it  much  better  to  meet  your  accusation,  than 
deserve  my  own.  How  long  I may  reside  at  St.  Catherine’s  is  to  myself 
unknown.  When  I quit  it,  I certainly  will  not  promise  to  leave  any  direc- 
tions where  you  may  find  me. 

The  obstacles  which  have  rendered  our  separation  necessary,  are,  I am 
convinced,  beyond  your  lordship’s  power  to  conquer.  Except  they  were 
removed,  any  farther  interviews  between  us  would  be  foolish  and  imprudent 
“ in  the  extreme.  I rejoice  to  hear  you  are  leaving  the  castle.  I also  rejoice, 
but  am  not  surprised,  to  hear  ©f  your  tranquillity.  From  your  good  sense 
I expected  you  would  make  exertions  against  useless  regrets,  and  those  ex- 
ertions I knew  would  be  attended  with  success  ; but,  as  some  return  for  the 
sincere  pleasure  I feel  for  your  restoration  to  tranquillity,  seek  not  to  disturb 
again  that  of  Amanda  Fitzalan. 

St.  Catherine’s,  May  12th. 

Scarcely  had  she  sealed  this  letter  when  she  was  called  to 
dinner  ; but  though  she  obeyed  the  summons  she  could  not 
eat.  The  exertions  her  writing  to  tord  Mortimer  required,  and 
the  agitation  his  letter  had  thrown  her  into,  quite  exhausted 
her  strength  and  spirits.  The  nuns  withdrew  sqon  after  dinner, 
and  left  her  alone  with  the  prioress.  In  a few  minutes  after 
their  departure,  thp  old  gardener  returned  from  Castle  Car- 
berry,  where  he  had  been  delivering  her  letter.  After  informing 
her  he  had  put  it  safely  into  his  lordship’s  hands,  he  added,  with 
a look  which  seemed  to  indicate  a fear  lest  she  should  be  dis- 
tressed, that  he  had  received  neither  letter  nor  message  from 
him,  though  he  waited  a long  time  in  expectation  of  receiving 
either  one  or  the  other ; but  he  supposed,  he  said,  his  lordship 
was  in  too  great  a hurry  just  then  to  give  any  answer,  as  a chaise 
and  four  was  waiting  to  carry  him  to  Dublin. 

Amanda  burst  into  tears  as  the  man  retired  from  the  room. 
She  saw  she  had  wTitten  to  Lord  Mortimer  for  the  last  time, 
and  she  could  not  suppress  this  tribute  of  regret.  She  w^as 
firmly  convinced,  indeed,  she  should  behold  him  no  more.  The 
idea  of  visiting  her  she  was  sure,  nay,  she  hoped,  he  would  re- 
linquish, when  he  found,  which  she  supposed  would  soon  be  the 
case,  the  schemes  or  hopes  which  now  buoyed  up  his  spirits 
impossible  to  be  realized. 

The  prioress  sympathized  in  her  sorrow  ; though  not  from 
her  own  experience,  yet  from  the  experience  of  others,  she 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


341 


knew  how  dangerous  and  bewitching  a creature  man  is,  and 
how  difficult  it  is  to  remove  the  chains  which  he  twines  around 
the  female  heart.  To  remove  those  which  lay  so  heavy  upon 
the  delicate  and  susceptible  heart  of  her  young  friend,  without 
leaving  a corrosive  wound,  was  her  sincere  wish,  and  by  strength- 
ening her  resolution,  she  hoped  success  would  crown  their  en- 
deavors. 

Two  hours  were  elapsed  since  her  messenger’s  return  from 
the  castle,  when  Sister  Mary  entered  the  room  with  a large 
packet,  which  she  put  into  Amanda’s  hands,  saying,  it  was 
given  heY  by  Lord  Mortimer’s  servant,  who  rode  off  the  mo- 
ment he  delivered  it. 

Sister  Mary  made  no  scruple  of  saying,  she  should  like  to 
know  what  such  a weighty  packet  contained.  The  prioress 
chid  her  in  a laughing  manner  for  her  curiosity,  and  drew  her 
into  the  garden,  to  give  Amanda  an  opportunity  of  examining 
the  contents. 

She  was  surprised,  on  breaking  the  seal,  to  perceive  a very 
handsome  pocket-book  in  a blank  cover,  and  found  unsealed, 
a letter  to  this  effect : — 

TO  MISS  FITZALAN. 

1 have  put  it  out  of  your  power  to  return  this,  by  departing  long  ere  you 
receive  it.  Surely,  if  3^ou  have  the  laudable  pride  you  profess,  you  will  not 
hesitate  to  use  the  contents  of  the  pocket-book,  as  the  only  means  of  avoid- 
ing a weight  of  obligations  from  strangers.  Though  discarded  as  a lover, 
surely  I may  be  esteemed  as  a friend,  and  with  such  a title  I will  be  con- 
tented till  I can  lay  claim  to  a tenderer  one.  You  start  at  this  last  expres- 
sion, and  I have  no  doubt  you  will  call  me  a romantic  visionary,  for  enter- 
taining hopes  which  you  have  so  positively  assured  me  can  never  be  real- 
ized ; but  ere  I resign  them,  I must  have  something  more  powerful  than 
this  assurance,  my  sweet  Amanda,  to  convince  me  of  their  fallacy.  I was 
inexpressibly  shocked  this  morning  to  learn  by  your  letter,  that  your  brother 
had  met  w'ith  misfortune.  My  blood  boils  with  indignation  against  the  mon- 
fter  who  has,  to  use  3’our  emphatical  expression,  been  such  a source  of 
misery  to  you  both.  I shall  make  it  my  particular  care  to  try  and  discover 
the  place  to  which  Mr.  Fitzalan  is  gone,  and  in  what  situation.  By  means 
of  the  agents,  or  some  of  the  officers  belonging  to  tlie  regiment,  I flatter 
myself  with  being  able  to  gain  some  intelligence  of  him.  I need  not  add, 
that,  to  the  utmost  extent  of  my  power  I will  serve  him.  My  success  in  this 
affair,  as  well  as  in  that  which  concerns  a much  dearer  being,  you  may  be 
convinced  you  shall  soon  hear.  Adieu,  my  Amanda;  I cannot  say,  like 
Hamlet,  “ Go,  get  you  to  a nunnery  ; ” but  I can  say,  “ Stay  there,  I charge 
you.’^  Seriously,  I could  wish,  except  you  find  your  present  situation  very 
unpleasant  and  inconvenient,  not  to  change  it  for  a short  time.  I think,  for 
a temporary  abode,  you  could  not  find  a more  eligible  one ; and,  as  I shall 
be  all  impatience  when  I return  to  Ireland  to  see  you,  a search  after  you 
would  be  truly  insupportable.  You  have  already  refused  to  inform  me  of 


342 


THE  CiriLDREN-  OE  THE  ABBEY,' 


your  determination  relative  to  this  matter ; surely  I may  venture  to  re- 
quest it  may  be  as  I wish,  when  I assure  you,  that,  except  I can  see  you  in 
a manner  pleasing  to  both,  I never  will  force  into  your  presence  him,  who, 
let  things  turn  out  as  they  may,  must  ever  continue  Your  faithful 

Mortimer. 

‘‘  Gracious  Heaven  ! said  Amanda  to  herself,  what  can 
he  mean  ? What  scheme  can  he  have  in  agitation  which  will 
remove  the  obstacles  to  our  union  ? He  here  seems  to  speak 
of  a certainty  of  success.  Oh,  grant,  merciful  Power  I ’’  she 
continued,  raising  her  meek  eyes  to  heaven,  while  a rosy  blush 
stole  upon  her  cheeks,  grant  that  indeed  he  may  be  successful. 
He  talks  of  returning  to  Ireland ; still,’’  proceeded  she,  read- 
ing over  the  letter,  of  requiring  something  more  powerful  than 
my  assurance  to  convince  him  of  the  fallacy  of  his  hopes. 
Surely,  Lord  Mortimer  would  not  be  so  cruel  as  to  raise  expec- 
tations in  my  bosom  without  those  in  his  own  were  well  founded. 
No,  dear  Mortimer,  I will  not  call  you  a romantic  visionary,  but 
the  most  amiable,  the  most  generous  of  men,  who  for  poor 
Amanda  encounters  difficulties  and  sacrifices  every  splendid 
expectation.”  She  rejoiced  at  the  intention  he  had  declared  of 
seeking  out  Oscar.  She  looked  forward  either  to  a speedy 
interview,  or  speedy  intelligence  of  this  beloved  brother,  as 
she  knew  Lord  Mortimer  would  seek  him  with  the  persevering 
spirit  of  benevolence,  and  leave  no  means  untried  to  restore  him 
to  her. 

She  now  examined  the  contents  of  the  pocket-book.  It  con- 
tained a number  of  small  bills,  to  the  amount  of  two  hundred 
pounds, — a large  present,  but  one  so  delicately  presented,  that 
even  her  ideas  of  propriety  could  scarcely  raise  a scruple  against 
her  accepting  it.  They  did,  however,  suggest  one.  Uncertain 
how  matters  would  yet  terminate  between  her  and  Lord  Morti- 
mer, she  was  unwilling  to  receive  pecuniary  obligations  from 
him.  But  when  she  reflected  on  his  noble  and  feeling  heart, 
she  knew  she  should  severely  wound  it  by  returning  his  present ; 
she  therefore  resolved  on  keeping  it,  making  a kind  of  com- 
promise with  her  feelings  about  the  matter,  by  determining  that, 
except  entitled  to  receive  them,  she  would  never  more  accept 
favors  of  this  nature  from  his  lordship.  The  present  one,  in- 
deed, was  a most  seasonable  relief,  and  removed  from  her  heart 
a load  of  anxiety  which  had  weighed  on  it.  After  paying  her 
father’s  funeral  expenses,  the  people  with  whom  he  lodged,  and 
the  apothecary  who  had  attended  him,  she  found  herself  mis- 
tress of  but  twenty  guineas  in  the  whole  world,  and  more  than 
half  of  this  she  considered  as  already  due  to  the  benevolent 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


343 

sisters  of  St.  Catherine’s,  who  were  ill  able  to  afford  any  addi- 
tional expense. 

She  had  resolved  to  force  them  to  acx:ept,  what  indeed  she 
deemed  a poor  return  for  their  kindness  to  her,  and  she  then 
intended  to  retire  to  some  obscure  hovel  in  the  neighborhood, 
as  better  suited  to  the  state  of  her  finances,  and  continue  there 
till  her  health  was  sufficiently  restored  to  enable  her  to  make 
exertions  for  her  livelihood.  But  she  shuddered  at  the  idea  of 
leaving  St.  Catherine’s  and  residing  amongst  a set  of  boors. 
She  felt  sensations  something  similar  to  those  we  may  suppose 
a person  would  feel  who  was  about  being  committed  to  a tem- 
pestuous ocean  without  any  means  of  security. 

Lord  Mortimer  had  prevented  the  necessity  which  had 
prompted  her  to  think  of  a removal,  and  she  now  resolved  to 
reside,  at  least  for  the  time  he  had  mentioned,  in  the  convent, 
during  which  she  supposed  her  uncertainties  relative  to  him 
would  be  over,  and  that,  if  it  was  not  her  fate  to  be  his,  she 
should,  by  the  perfect  re-establishment  of  her  health,  be  enabled 
to  use  her  abilities  in  the  manner  her  situation  required.  Tears 
of  heartfelt  gratitude  and  sensibility  flowed  down  her  cheeks 
for  him  who  had  lightened  her  mind  of  the  care  which  had  so 
oppressed  it. 

She  at  length  recollected  the  prioress  had  retired  into  the 
garden  from  complaisance  to  her,  and  yet  continued  in  it,  wait- 
ing no  doubt  to  be  summoned  back  to  her.  She  hastily  wiped 
away  her  tears,  and  folding  up  the  precious  letter  which  was 
bedewed  with  them,  repaired  to  the  garden,  resolving  not  to 
communicate  its  contents,  as  the  divulgement  of  expectations 
(considering  how  liable  all  human  ones  are  to  be  disappointed) 
she  ever  considered  a piece  of  folly. 

She  found  the  prioress  and  Sister  Mary  seated  under  a 
broken  and  ivy-covered  arch.  Jesu  ! my  dear,”  said  the  lat- 
ter, ‘‘  I thought  you  would  never  come  to  us.  Our  good  mother 
has  been  keeping  me  here  in  spite  of  my  teeth,  though  I told 
her  the  sweet  cakes  I made  for  tea  would  be  burned  by  this 
time,  and  that,  supposing  you  were  reading  a letter  from  Lord 
Mortimer,  there  could  be  no  harm  in  my  seeing  you.”  Amanda 
relieved  the  impatient  Mary,  and  she  took  her  seat.  The 
prioress  cast  her  piercing  eyes  upon  her.  She  perceived  she 
had  been  weeping,  and  that  joy  rather  than  sorrow  caused  her 
tears.  She  was  too  delicate  to  inquire  into  its  source  ; but  she 
took  Amanda’s  hand,  and  gave  it  a pressure,  which  seemed  to 
say,  I see,  my  dear  child,  you  have  met  with  something  which 
pleases  you,  and  my  heart  sympathizes  as  much  in  your  happi- 
Jsess  as  in  your  grief/' 


344 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Amanda  returned  the  affectionate  pressure  with  one  equalty 
tender  and  a starting  tear.  They  were  soon  called  by  Sister 
Mary  to  partake  of  her  hot  cakes,  which  she  had  made  indeed 
in  hopes  of  tempting  Amanda  to  eat  after  her  bad  dinner.  The 
whole  community  were  assembled  at  tea  when  the  doctor  en- 
tered the  parlor.  Amanda  blushed  and  looked  grave  at  his  first 
entrance  ; but  he  soon  rallied  her  out  of  her  gravity.  And  when 
the  prioress  and  the  nuns,  according  to  custom,  had  withdrawn 
to  evening  vespers,  he  said,  with  a significant  smile,  ‘‘  he  feared 
she  had  not  attended  as  much  as  he  wished  she  should  to  the 
contents  of  the  book  he  had  last  brought  her.’’  She  saw  by 
his  manner  he  was  acquainted  with  her  situation  relative  to 
Lord  Mortimer,  and  therefore  replied  by  saying,  ‘‘  that  perhaps, 
if  he  knew  the  motives  which  influenced  her  conduct,  he  would 
not  think  her  wrong  in  disregarding  what  he  had  just  men- 
tioned.” She  also  said,  ‘‘  she  detested  all  kinds  of  stratagem, 
and  was  really  displeased  with  him  for  practising  one  upon 
her.”  ‘‘In  a good  cause,”  he  said,  “he  should  never  hesitate 
using  one.  Lord  Mortimer  was  the  finest  young  fellow  he  had 
ever  seen,  and  had  won  his  favor,  and  the  best  wishes  of  his 
heart,  from  the  first  moment  that  he  beheld  him.  He  made  me 
contrive,”  continued  the  doctor,  “ a story  to  gain  admission  to 
your  ladyship,  and  when  I found  him  so  dreadfully  anxious 
about  you,  I gave  you  credit  (as  I had  then  no  opportunity  of 
judging  for  myself)  for  all  the  virtues  and  graces  he  ascribed  to 
you,  and  which  I have  since  perceived  you  to  possess.  You 
smile,  and  look  as  if  you  would  call  me  a flatterer  ; seriously,  I 
assure  you  I am  not  one.  I really  think  you  worthy  of  Lord 
Mortimer,  and  I assure  you  that  is  as  great  a compliment  as 
could  be  paid  any  woman.  His  mind  was  troubled  with  grief ; 
he  revealed  his  troubles  and  perplexities  to  me,  and  after  hear- 
ing them,  no  good  Christian  ever  prayed  more  devoutly  for 
another  than  I prayed  for  your  recovery,  that  all  your  sorrows, 
like  a novel,  might  terminate  in  marriage.”  “ You  are  obliging 
in  your  wishes,”  said  Amanda,  smiling.  “ Faith,  I am  sincere 
in  them,”  exclaimed  he,  “ and  do  not  know  when  I have  been 
so  disconcerted  as  at  things  not  turning  out  smoothly  between 
you  and  his  lordship;  but  I will  not  despair.  In  all  my 
troubles,  and  Heaven  has  given  me  my  share,  I ever  looked  to 
the  bright  side  of  things,  and  shall  always  do  so  for  my  friends 
I yet  expect  to  see  you  settled  at  Castle  Carberry,  and  to  bv 
appointed  myself  physician-general  to  your  ladyship’s  house- 
hold.” The  mention  of  an  event  yet  so  uncertain  greatly  agi- 
tated Amanda ; she  blushed  and  turned  pale  alternately,  and 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


345 


convinced  her  good-natured  but  loquacious  friend,  he  had 
touched  a chord  which  could  not  bear  vibration.  He  hastily 
changed  the  discourse,  and  as  soon  as  he  saw  her  composed, 
rose  to  take  his  leave.  Amanda  detained  him  for  a minute,  to 
try  and  prevail  on  him  to  take  a ten-guinea  note  ; but  he  was 
inflexible,  and  said  with  some  archness,  ‘‘  till  the  disorder  which 
preyed  upon  Lord  Mortimer’s  heart  was  in  some  degree  allevi- 
ated, he  would  receive  no  recompense  for  his  visits,  which  he 
assured  Amanda,  from  time  to  time,  he  would  continue  to  pay 
her,  adding,  a certain  person  had  enjoined  him  now  and  then 
to  take  a peep  within  the  holy  \^alls  of  St.  Catherine’s.” 

The  next  morning  Amanda  set  about  a temporary  arrange- 
ment of  her  affairs.  She  presented  thirty  guineas  to  the  sis- 
terhood, which,  with  much  difficulty,  she  forced  them  to  ac- 
cept, though,  in  reality,  it  was  much  required  by  them.  But 
when  she  came  to  speak  of  paying  for  a continuance,  they 
positively  declared  they  would  agree  to  no  such  thing,  as  she 
had  already  so  liberally  rewarded  them  for  any  expense  they 
had  incurred  on  her  account.  She  told  them  that  if  they  would 
not  agree  to  be  paid  for  lodging  and  board,  she  would  certainly 
leave  them,  though  such  a step  was  contrary  to  her  inclinations  ; 
she  assured  them  also  she  was  at  present  well  able  to  pay. 

At  last  it  was  settled  she  should  give  them  at  the  rate  of 
forty  pounds  a-year — a salary  they  thought  extremely  ample, 
considering  the  plain  manner  in  which  they  lived.  She  then 
had  all  the  things  which  belonged  -to  her  father  and  herself 
brought  to  the  convent,  and  had  the  former,  with  whatever  she 
did  not  immediately  want,  nailed  up  in  a large  chest,  that  on  a 
short  notice  they  might  be  removed.  Her  harp  and  guitar  she 
had,  in  her  distress,  proposed  sending  back  to  the  person  in 
Dublin  from  whom  they  were  purchased,  to  sell  for  her  ; but 
she  now  determined  to  keep  those  presents  of  her  beloved 
father,  except  again  urged  by  necessity  to  part  with  them.  She 
had  a variety  of  materials  for  painting  and  working,  and  pro- 
posed employing  herself  in  executing  pieces  in  each  way,  not 
only  as  a means  of  amusing  her  time,  but  as  a resource  on 
an  evil  day ; thus  wisely  making  use  of  the  present  sunshine, 
lest  another  storm  should  arise  which  she  should  not  be  so  weP 
%ble  to  struggle  against 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


MAS 


CHAPTER  XXXVIL 

**  In  struggling  with  misfortunes 
Lies  the  proof  of  virtue.’*— Shakspeare, 

The  turbulence  of  grief,  and  the  agitation  of  suspense, 
gradually  lessened  in  the  mind  of  Amanda,  and  were  succeeded 
by  a soft  and  pleasing  melancholy,  which  sprang  from  the  con- 
sciousness  of  having  always,  to  the  best  of  her  abilities,  per- 
formed the  duties  imposed  upon  her,  and  supported  her  mis- 
fortunes with  placid  resignation.  She  loved  to  think  on  her 
father,  for  amidst  her  sighs  for  his  loss  were  mingled  the)  de- 
lightful ideas  of  having  ever  been  a source  of  comfort  to  him, 
and  she  believed,  if  departed  spirits  were  allowed  to  review 
this  world,  his  would  look  down  upon  her  with  delight  and  ap- 
probation at  beholding  her  undeviating  in  the  path  he  had 
marked  out  for  her  to  take.  The  calm  derived  from  such  med- 
itations she  considered  as  a recompense  for  many  sorrows ; it 
was  such,  indeed,  as  nothing  earthly  gives,  or  can  destroy,  and 
what  the  good  must  experience,  though  “ amidst  the  wreck  of 
matter  and  the  crush  of  worlds.’^ 

She  tried  to  prevent  her  thoughts  from  wandering  to  Lord 
Mortimer,  as  the  surest  means  of  retaining  her  composure, 
which  fled  whenever  she  reflected  on  the  doubtful  balance  in 
which  her  fate  yet  hung  concerning  him. 

The  solitude  of  St.  Catherine's  was  v/ell  adapted  to  hei 
present  situation  and  frame  of  mind.  She  was  neither  teased 
with  impertinent  or  unmeaning  ceremony,  but  perfect  mistress 
of  her  own  time  and  actions,  read,  worked,  and  walked,  as  most 
agreeable  to  herself.  She  did  not  extend  her  walks  beyond 
the  convent,  as  the  scenes  around  it  would  awaken  remem- 
brances she  had  not  sufficient  fortitude  to  bear  ; but  the  space 
it  covered  was  ample  enough  to  afford  her  many  different  and 
extensive  rambles.  And  of  a still  evening,  when  nothing  but 
the  lowing  of  the  cattle,  or  the  buzzing  of  the  summer  flies, 
was  to  be  heard,  she  loved  to  wander  through  the  solemn  and 
romantic  ruins,  sometimes  accompanied  by  a nun,  but  much 
oftener  alone. 

A fortnight  had  elapsed  in  this  manner  since  Lord  Mor- 
timer’s departure,  when,  one  morning,  a carriage  was  heard 
driving  across  the  common  and  stopping  at  the  outer  gate  ot 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


347 


St.  Catherine’s.  Amanda,  who  was  sitting  at  work  in  the  parlor 
with  the  prioress,  started  in  a universal  trepidation  at  the  sound. 
It  may  be  easily  imagined  the  idea  of  Lord  Mortimer  was 
uppermost  in  her  thoughts.  The  door  opened  in  a few  minutes, 
and,  to  her  great  astonishment,  Mrs.  Kilcorban  and  her  two 
daughters  made  their  appearance. 

Agitation  and  surprise  prevented  Amanda  from  speaking  ; 
she  curtseyed,  and  motioned  them  to  be  seated.  The  young 
ladies  saluted  her  with  an  icy  civility,  and  the  mother  treated 
her  with  a rude  familiarity,  which  she  thought  herself  authorized 
in  using  to  one  so  reduced  in  circumstances  as  Amanda. 
“ Dear  me,”  cried  she,  “ you  can’t  think,  child,  how  shocked 
we  have  all  been  to  hear  of  your  misfortunes.  We  only 
returned  to  the  country  yesterday,  for  we  have  been  in  town 
the  whole  winter,  and  to  be  sure  a most  delightful  winter  we 
have  had  of  it — such  balls,  such  routs,  such  racketings  ; but, 
as  I was  going  to  say,  as  soon  as  we  came  home  I began, 
according  to  my  old  custom,  to  inquire  after  all  my  neighbors  ; 
and  to  be  sure  the  very  first  thing  I heard  of  was  the  poor 
captain’s  death.  Don’t  cry,  my  dear,  we  must  all  go  one  time 
or  another ; those  are  things,  of  course,  as  the  doctor  says  in  his 
sermon  ; so,  when  1 heard  of  your  father’s  death  and  your 
distress,  I began  to  cast  about  in  my  brains  some  plan  for 
helping  you ; and  at  last  I hit  upon  one  which,  says  I to  the 
girls,  will  delight  the  poor  soul,  as  it  will  give  her  an  opportunity 
of  earning  decent  bread  for  herself.  You  must  know,  my  dear, 
the  tutoress  we  brought  to  town  would  not  come  back  with  us 
— a dirty  trollop,  by  the  bye,  and  I think  her  place  would  be 
quite  the  thing  for  you.  You  will  have  the  four  young  girls  to 
learn  French  and  work  too,  and  I will  expect  you,  as  you  have 
a good  taste,  to  assist  the  eldest  Miss  Kilcorbans  in  making 
up  their  things  and  dressing.  I give  twenty  guineas  a-year. 
When  we  have  no  company,  the  tutoress  always  sits  at  the  table, 
and  gets,  besides  this,  the  best  of  treatment  in  every  respect.” 

A blush  of  indignation  had  gradually  conquered  Amanda’s 
paleness  during  Mrs.  Kilcorban’s  long  and  eloquent  speech. 

Your  intentions  may  be  friendly,  madam,”  cried  she,  ^^but  I 
must  decline  your  proposal.”  Bless  me,  and  why  must  you 
decline  it  ? perhaps  you  think  yourself  not  qualified  to  instruct ; 
indeed,  this  may  be  the  case,  for  people  often  get  credit  for 
accomplishments  they  do  not  possess.  Well,  if  this  is  so,  I am 
still  content  to  take  you,  as  you  were  always  a decent  behaved 
young  body.  Indeed,  you  cannot  expect  I should  give  you 
twenty  guineas  a-year.  No,  no,  I must  make  some  abatement 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  , 


348 

in  the  salary,  if  I am  forced  to  get  masters  to  help  you  in  learn- 
ing the  girls.’’  “ Miss  Fitzalan,  madam,”  exclaimed  the  prioress, 
who  had  hitherto  continued  silent,  never  got  credit  for  accom- 
plishments which  she  did  not  possess  ; her  modesty  has  rather 
obscured  than  blazoned  forth  her  perfections  ' she  does  not, 
therefore,  madam,  decline  your  offer  from  a consciousness  of 
inability  to  undertake  the  office  of  an  instructor,  but  from  a 
conviction  she  never  could  support  impertinence  and  folly  ; 
should  her  situation  ever  require  her  to  exert  her  talents  for 
subsistence,  I trust  she  will  never  experience  the  mortification 
of  associating  with  those  who  are  insensible  of  her  worth,  or 
unwilling  to  pay  her  the  respect  she  merits.”  “ Hoity,  toity,” 
cried  Mrs.  Kilcorban,  “ what  assurance  ! Why,  madam,  many 
a better  man’s  child  would  be  glad  to  jump  at  such  an  offer.” 
“Dear  madam,”  said  Miss  Kilcorban,  “perhaps  the  young 
lady  has  a better  settlement  in  view.  We  forget  Lord  Mortimer 
has  been  lately  at  Castle  Carberry,  and  we  all  know  his  lord- 
ship  is  a friend  to  Captain  Fitzalan's  daughter.”  “ Or  perhaps,” 
cried  Miss  Alicia,  in  a giggling  tone,  “ she  means  to  be  a nun.” 
“ Indeed,  I suppose  she  means  to  be  nothing  good,  rejoined 
Mrs.  Kilcorban  ; “ and  I suppose  it  was  by  some  impertinence 
or  other  she  had  a tiff  with  Lady  Grey  stock.  Lord  ! (looking 
round  the  room),  only  see  her  music-books — her  harp — her 
guitar — as  if  she  had  nothing  to  do  but  sing  and  thrum  away 
the  whole  day.  Well,  miss  (rising  from  her  chair),  you  may 
yet  be  sorry  your  friend  said  so  much  about  you.  I did  not 
come  merely  to  offer  to  take  you  into  my  house,  but  to  offer 
you  also  a good  sum  for  your  harp  and  guitar,  supposing  you 
had  no  business  with  such  things  nowadays  ; but  I dare  say 
you  would  have  refused  this  offer.”  “ I certainly  should, 
madam,”  said  Amanda  ; “ it  must  be  strong  necessity  which 
compels  me  to  part  with  my  beloved  father’s  presents.” . “ Well, 
well,  child,  I wish  this  pride  of  thine  may  not  yet  be  humbled.” 
So  saying,  she  flounced  out  of  the  room,  followed  by  her  daugh- 
ters, who,  under  an  affectation  of  contempt,  evidently  showed 
they  were  chagrined  by  the  reception  they  had  met. 

The  prioress  indulged  herself  in  a long  fit  of  laughter  at 
the  passion  into  which  she  had  thrown  Mrs.  Kilcorban ; and 
Amanda,  who  considered  the  lady  and  her  daughters  as  the 
most  insignificant  of  beings,  soon  recovered  from  the  discom- 
posure their  visit  had  occasioned.  In  the  course  of  the  evening 
a letter  was  delivered  her  by  the  servant,  who  ’said  the  mes- 
senger who  brought  it  waited  for  an  answer.  Amanda,  in  a 
universal  .trepidation,  broke  the  seal  ; but,  instead  of  Lord 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


349 

Mortimer’s  as  she  expected,  a hand,  to  her  entirely  new,  struck 
her  view  : — 

. TO  MISS  FITZALAN. 

My  dear  Creature, — I think  I never  was  so  diverted  in  my  life  as  at 
the  account  my  mother  and  sisters  gave  of  the  reception  they  met  with  from 
you  to-day  at  St.  Catl^erine’s.  I vow  to  God  it  was  excellent.  Nor  can  I 
help  still  wondering  at  their  absurdity,  in  thinking  such  a devilish  fine  girl 
as  you  are  would  sacrifice  your  time  in  instructing  a parcel  of  chits,  when  it 
can  be  devoted  to  so  much  better  a purpose ! To  be  brief,  my  dear  girl,  I 
will  take  you  immediately  under  my  protection,  if  not  your  own  fault,  bring 
you  to  Dublin,  settle  you  in  elegant  lodgings  with  a handsome  allowance, 
and  not  only  make  you,  but  declare  you  to  be,  the  grand  Sultana  of  my 
affection  ; a situation  which,  I can  assure  you,  you  will  not  be  a little  envied 
enjoying.  In  your  answer  to  this,  I shall  expect  to  hear  when  I may  have 
the  felicity  of  bringing  you  from  obscurity,  to  the  brilliant  scene  you  were 
formed  to  ornament.  Adieu,  my  dear.  Believe  me  your  devoted, 

B.  Kilcorban. 

The  indignation  which  filled  Amanda’s  breast  at  reading 
this  scrawl  cannot  be  expressed.  Her  blood  seemed  to  boil  in 
her  veins.  It  was  some  time  ere  she  could  sufficiently  com- 
pose herself  to  acquaint  the  prioress  with  the  cause  of  her 
agitation.  It  was  then  agreed  that  the  letter  should  be  returned 
with  the  following  lines  written  on  it: — 

The  author  of  this  effusion  of  ignorance  and  impertinence  has  already 
inspired  all  the  contempt  he  merits.  Should  he  repeat  his  insolence,  some- 
thing even  more  mortifying  than  contempt — chastisement — must  ensue. 

That  a repetition  of  this  kind  would  be  the  case,  she  did 
not  believe.  From  Kilcorban  she  had  no  reason  to  suspect 
either  the  perseverance  or  designs  of  Belgrave.  One  was  a 
libertine  from  principle,  the  other  she  believed  from  fashion  ; and 
that  to  pique  his  pride  would  be  a sure  method  of  getting  rid 
of  him. 

But  the  calm  she  had  for  some  time  experienced  was 
destined  to  be  interrupted.  The  next  morning  brought  Father 
O’Gallaghan,  the  little  fat  priest  (of  whom  we  have  made  men- 
tion before  in  our  pages),  to  the  convent.  He  was  not  the 
officiating  priest;  but  notwithstanding  this,  paid  many  visits, to 
the  sisterhood,  with  whom  he  was  a great  favorite  ; he  had 
been  much  concerned  about  Amanda’s  illness.  She  was  sitting 
alone  in  the  parlor,  drawing,  when  he  entered  it.  He  seated 
himself  by  her,  and  the  expression  of  his  countenance  seemed 
to  declare  his  heart  was  brimful  of  something  pleasant. 

‘^You  won’t  be  offended  now,  my  dear  sowl,”  said  he, 
smirking  up  in  her  face,  “ with  a body  for  asking  you  how  you 


35^ 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


would  like  to  leave  this  dismal  solitude  and  have  a comfortable 
home  of  your  own,  where  you  might  see  your  own  friends,  and 
have  everything  warm  and  cosy  about  you  ? ’’  Why,”  said 
Amanda,  ‘‘  though  I do  not  consider  this  a dismal  solitude,  yet, 
to  be  sure,  I should  have  no  objection  to  a pleasant  settled 
habitation.”  “ Ay,  I always  thought  you  a sensible  young  body. 
Well,  and  what  would  you  say  to  the  person  then  who  could  point 
out  such  a habitation  "I  Ay,  you  little  rogue,  who  could  say 
they  had  just  such  a one  in  their  eye  for  you.”  Amanda  stared 
at  him  with  astonishment.  She  had  at  first  believed  him  jest- 
ing, but  now  found  him  serious. 

Ay,  faith,  my  dear  creature,”  cried  he,  continuing  his  dis- 
course with  a look  of  the  most  perfect  satisfaction,  ‘‘  I have 
an  offer  to  make  you,  which,  I believe,  would  make  many  girls 
jump  out  of  their  skins  with  joy  to  hear.  You  remember  the 
O’Flannaghans,  I am  sure,  where  you  took  tea  last  summer. 
Well,  the  eldest  of  the  sons  (as  honest  a lad  as  ever  broke  bread) 
cast  a sheep’s  eye  upon  you  then.  But  what  with  your  going 
from  the  country,  and  some  other  matters,  he  thought  there 
was  no  use  then  in  revealing  his  flame ; but  now,  when  you  are 
come  plump  in  his  way  again,  faith  he  plucked  up  his  courage, 
and  told  his  father  all  about  it.  Old  Flannaghan  is  a good- 
natured  sowl,  and  is  very  willing  the  match  should  take  place. 
They  have  everything  snug  about  them.  The  old  man  will 
give  everything  into  your  spouse’s  hands.  The  youngest  son 
will  live  in  the  house  till  he  gets  married,  and  goes  off  to  a 
farm  of  his  own.  The  eldest  daughter  is  married  ; the  second 
will  live  with  her,  and  the  youngest  will  be  a little  handy 
assistant  to  yoUc  So  you  see,  you  will  not  be  tormented  with 
a large  family.  There  is  one  little  matter  which,  to  be  sure, 
they  are  a little  uneasy  about,  and  that  is  your  being  of  different 
persuasions  ; but  says  I to  them,  when  this  was  started,  faith, 
says  I,  you  need  not  give  yourself  any  trouble  about  it,  for  I 
know  the  young  woman  to  be  a discreet  sowl,  and  I am  sure 
she  will  make  no  hesitation  about  going  to  chapel  instead  of 
church,  when  she  knows,  too,  it  is  for  her  own  interest.  So, 
my  dear  sowl,  I hope  soon  to  give  you  the  nuptial  benediction, 
and  to  be  also  your  spiritual  director.” 

Amanda  had  listened  to  this  speech  in  silent  amazement. 
She  now  rose,  and  would  have  quitted  the  room  without  speak- 
ing, to  evince  her  contempt,  had  not  an  idea  darted  into  her 
mind  that  such  conduct  perhaps  might  not  be  construed  by  the 
ignorant  priest  in  the  manner  she  wished.  She  therefore 
Stopped,  and  turning  to  him  5aid  : “ He  <^ould  not  wonder  at 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


feer  being  offended  at  his  pretending  to  answer  so  freely  for 
her  in  matters  so  important  as  religion  ; but  to  prove  how  prf> 
sumptuous  he  was  in  everything  he  said  about  her,  she  must 
assure  him  his  embassy  to  her  v/as  equally  fruitless  and  dis- 
agreeable ; and  that  if  Mr.  OTlannaghan  consulted  his  own 
happiness,  he  would  seek  to  unite  himself  with  a woman 
brought  up  111  his  own  sphere  of  life.’’  So  saying,  she  quitted 
the  room  with  a look  of  dignity  which  quite  confounded  the 
poor  priest,  who  snatched  up  his  hat  'n  great  hurry,  and  wad- 
dled away  to  the  farm,  to  communica  the  ill-success  of  his 
visitj,  which  had  quite  crushed  his  ex  ectations  of  wedding 
presents  and  pudding  feasts,  which  he  had  contemplated  in 
idea  with  delight. 

It  was  some  time  ere  Amanda  recovered  from  the  discom- 
posure into  which  the  impertinence  of  the  Kilcorbans  and  the 
priest  had  thrown  her.  From  what  she  suffered  in  conse- 
quence of  it,  she  was  forcibly  convinced  how  ill-qualified  she 
was  to  struggle  with  a world  where  she  would  be  continually 
liable  to  such  shocks.  She  had  yet  a hope  of  escaping  them 
‘ — a hope  of  being  guarded  by  the  tutelary  care  of  Lord  Morti- 
mer, and  of  being  one  of  the  happiest  of  her  sex. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

“ Lo ! I am  here  to  answer  to  your  vows, 

And  be  the  meeting  fortunate  I I come 

With  ioyful  tidings  ; we  shall  part  no  more.” — A :enside. 

But  a shock  more  severe  than  those  she  had  lately  ex- 
perienced was  yet  in  store  for  our  hapless  heroine.  About  a 
fortnight  after  the  visit  of  the  Kilcorbans  and  the  pried;,  as  she 
was  rambling  one  evening  according  to  custom  amongst  the 
solitary  ruins  of  St.  Catherine’s,  indulging  the  pensive  medita- 
tions of  her  soul,  the  figure  of  a man  suddenly  darted  from 
under  a broken  arch,  and  discovered  to  her  view  the  features 
of  the  hated  Belgrave.  Amandc  gave  a faint  cry,  and  in  un- 
utterable dismay  tottered  back  a few  pacer;  against  a wall. 
“ Cruel  Amanda  1 ” exclaimed  Belgrave,  whih  his  look  seemed 
to  r.mply  he  would  take  advantage  of  her  situation.  His  look, 
his  voice,  operated  like  a charm  to  rouse  her  from  the  kind  ot 
stupefaction  into  which  she  had  fallen  at  first  sight  of  him,  and 
HS  he  attempted  to  lay  hold  of  her  she  sprang  past  him,  and, 


352 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


with  a swiftness  which  mocked  his  speed,  flew  through  the 
tricate  windings  of  the  place  till  she  reached  the  convent.  Her 
pale  and  distracted  look,  as  she  rushed  into  the  prioress’s 
apartment,  terrified  the  good  old  lady,  who  hastily  interrogated 
her  as  to  the  cause  of  her  disorder;  but  Amanda  was  unable 
to  speak.  The  appearance  of  Belgrave  she  thought  an  omen 
of  every  ill  to  her.  Her  blood  ran  cold  through  her  veins  at 
his,  sight,  and  terror  totally  subdued  her  powers.  The  prioress 
summoned  Sister  Mary  to  her  relief ; drops  and  water  were 
administered,  and  the  overloaded  heart  of  the  trembling 
Amanda  was  relieved  by  tears.  The  prioress  again  asked  the 
cause  of  her  agitation,  but  perceiving  Amanda  did  not  like  to 
speak  before  Sister  Mary,  she  immediately  pretended  to  think 
it  proceeded  from  fatigue,  and  Mary,  who  was  simplicity  itself, 
readily  credited  the  idea.  The  prioress  soon  sent  her  upon  some 
pretext  from  the  room,  and  then,  in  the  gentlest  terms,  begged  to 
know  what  had  .so  cruelly  alarmed  her  young  friend.  Amanda 
had  already  confided  to  the  prioress  the  events  of  her  life,  so 
that  the  good  lady,  on  hearing  Belgrave  now  mentioned,  no 
longer  wondered  at  the  agitation  of  Amanda ; yet,  as  her  fears 
she  saw  were  too  powerful  for  her  reason,  she  endeavored  to 
convince  her  they  were  unnecessary.  She  called  to  her  re- 
membrance the  singular  protection  she  had  already  experi- 
enced from  Heaven,  and  the  protection  which,  while  she  was 
innocent,  she  would  still  have  a right  to  expect.  She  also 
mentioned  the  security  of  her  present  situation — encompassed 
by  friends  whose  integrity  could  not  be  v/arped,  and  whose 
utmost  zeal  would  be  manifested  in  defeating  any  stratagems 
which  might  be  laid  against  her. 

Amanda  grew  composed  as  she  listened  to  the  prioress.  She 
was  cheered  by  the  voice  of  piety  and  friendship,  and  her  heart 
again  felt  firm  and  elevated.  She  acknowledged  that  after  the 
singular,  nay,  almost  miraculous  interpositions  of  Providence 
she  had  experienced  in  her  favor,  to  give  way  to  terror  or  de- 
spair w^as  sinful,  since  it  showed  a 'distrust  of  the  Power  who 
has  promised  with  guardian  care  to  watch  the  footsteps  of  the 
innocent.  It  \vas,  however,  agreed  that  Amanda  should  ven- 
ture no  more  from  the  convent,  but  confine  her  rambles  to  the 
garden,  which  was  enclosed  wfith  a high  wall,  and  had  no 
places  of  concealment.  Five  weeks  yet  remained  of  the  period 
Lord  Mortimer  had  requested  her  to  stay  at  St.  Catherine’s. 
Before  it  was  expired  she  trusted  and  believed  Belgrave  would 
be  weary  of  watching  her,  and  would  decamp  ; if,  then,  she 
neither  saw  nor  heard  from  Lord  Mortimer,  she  resolved  to 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABEBY. 


353 


relinquish  all  hope  concerning  him,  and  immediately  U'link 
upon  some  plan  which  should  put  her  in  a way  of  procuring 
subsistence. 

Her  paintings  and  embroidery  still  went  on.  She  had  ex- 
ecuted some  elegant  pictures  in  both,  which,  if  obliged  to  dis- 
pose of,  she  was  sure  would  bring  a good  price ; yet,  whenever 
compelled  by  reflection  to  this  idea,  the  tear  of  tender  melan- 
choly would  fall  upon  her  lovely  cheek — a tear  which  was  ever 
hastily  wiped  away,  while  she  endeavored  to  fortify  her  mind 
with  pious  resignation  to  whatever  should  be  her  future  fate. 

Three  weeks  more  elapsed  without  any  event  to  discompose 
their  tranquillity  ; but  as  the  termination  of  the  destined  peHod 
•approached,  the  agitation  of  Amanda,  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts 
to  the  contrary,  increased.  She  deemed  the  awful  crisis  of 
her  fate  at  hand,  and  she  trembled  at  the  reflection.  She  now 
for  the  first  time  avoided  solitude.  She  wanted  to  fly  from 
herself,  and  sat  constantly  with  the  prioress,  who  had  nothing 
of  the  gloomy  recluse,  save  the  habit,  about  her. 

They  were  chatting  together  one  evening  after  tea  when 
Sister  Mary  entered  the  room,  bearing  a large  packet,  which 
she  rather  tossed  than  presented  to  Amanda,  exclaiming, 
“ From  Lord  Mortimer ; I wish  the  troublesome  fellow  had 
not  come  back  again  ; here  we  shall  have  him  frisking  or  storm- 
ing continually,  and  again  plaguing  us  out  of  our  lives.’^  “ From 
Lord  Mortimer!  ’’  exclaimed  Amanda,  starting  from  her  chair, 
and  clasping  the  letter  between  her  hands,  “ Oh,  gracious 
Heaven  I ’’  She  said  no  more,  but  flew  from  the  room  to  her 
chamber.  She  tore  open  the  seal.  The  envelope  contained 
two  letters.  The  first  was  directed  in  a hand  unknown  to  her. 
Her  heart  sickened  as  she  dropped  it  on  the  ground.  The 
other  was  the  superscription  of  Lord  Mortimer.  She  opened 
it  with  revived  spirits,  and  read  a follows 

TO  MISS  FITZALAN. 

I am  returned — returned  to  tell  my  Amanda  that  nothing  but  the  awful 
fiat  of  Heaven  shall  part  us  more.  Yes,  my  love,  a sweet  reward  for  all  our 
difficulties,  our  trials — let  me  add,  our  persevering  constancy — is  at  hand ; 
and  one  name,  one  interest,  one  fate,  I trust,  will  soon  be  ours. 

Tears  of  joy  gushed  from  Amanda  as  she  exclaimed,  “Can 
this,  can  this  be  true  ? Is  Lord  Mortimer,  so  long,  so  hope- 
lessly beloved,  indeed  returned  to  tell  me  we  shall  part  n-o 
more  ? ’Tis  true,  his  true,  and  never  can  my  grateful  heart 
sufficiently  acknowledge  the  gocdness  it  experiences ; but  how 


354 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  AP.nEY. 


was  this  event  brought  about  ? She  wiped  away  her  tears, 
and  resumed  the  letter. 

Your  solemn  refusal  to  unite  yourself  to  me  threw  me  into  agonies  ; but 
true  love,  like  true  courage,  will  never  despair,  will  never  yield  to  difficul- 
ties, without  first  trying  every  effort  to  conquer  them.  I soon,  therefore, 
roused  myself  from  the  heavy  weight  which  oppressed  my  spirits  at  your 
resolution,  and  ere  long  conceived  a project  so  feasible,  so  almost  certain  of 
success,  tha^  my  impatience  to  realize  it  cannot  be  described  ; yet  you  may 
conceive  some  idea  of  it  from  the  abrupt  manner  in  which  I quitted  Castle 
Carberry,  without  desiring  to  bid  you  adieu;  but  ere  it  could  be  accom- 
plished I plainly  saw  I had  many  difficulties  to  encounter,  difficulties  which 
it  was  absolutely  essential  to  overcome,  that  I might  prove  to  the  world  I 
was  not  the  dupe  of  love,  but  the  friend,  the  lover,  and  the  vindicator  of  real 
innocence  and  virtue.  From  what  I have  said,  you  may  suppose  the  diffi- 
culties I allude  to  were  such  as  I expected  to  encounter  in  my  attempt  to 
unravel  the  whole  of  the  deep  and  execrable  plot  which  involved  you  in  a 
situation  so  distressing  to  your  feelings,  and  injurious  to  your  character  ; 
and,  oh  ! with  what  mingled  pride  and  pleasure  did  I meditate  on  being 
your  champion,  clearing  your  fame  from  each  dark  aspersion,  and  proving, 
clearly  provings  that  your  mind  was  as  lovely,  as  angelic,  as  your  person  ! 

I was  happy,  on  my  arrival  in  London,  to  find  Lady  Martha  Dormer  still 
at  Lord  Cherbury’s  house.  I have  already  told  you  that  I left  town  on  pre- 
tence of  a visit  to  my  sister,  in  Wales.  My  father,  I soon  perceived,  sus- 
pected that  had  not  been  the  real  motive  of  my  departure : but  I also  per- 
ceived he  did  not  desire  to  reveal  his  suspicions,  as  he  asked  some  questions 
concerning  Lady  Ararninta,  which,  you  may  be  sure,  I answered  awkwardly 
enough,  and,  had  a comic  writer  been  present,  he  might  have  taken  the  hint 
of  a good  blundering  scene  from  us  both. 

The  Marquis  of  Roslin  and  his  family,  I learned,  continued  at  his  villa. 
Their  absence  from  town  rejoiced  me,  as  it  not  only  exempted  me  from  so- 
ciety I abhorred,  but,  as  it  gave  me  an  opportunity  of  interrogating  their 
household,  amongst  whom,  I was  convinced,  I should  discover  the  trusty 
agents  the  amiable  marchioness  had  made  use  of  in  her  scheme  against  you. 
The  morning' after  my  arrival,  I accordingly  set  off  to  Portman  Square.  The 
man  who  opened  the  door  knew  me  not,  which  I considered  a lucky  circum- 
stance, for,  not  being  able  to  mention  my  name  to  the  housekeeper,  w'hom  I 
desired  him  to  send  to  me,  she  was  not  as  much  on  her  guard  as  she  would 
otherwise  have  been.  She  started  as  she  entered  the  parlor,  and  lifted  up 
her  hands  and  eyes  with  unfeigned  astonishment.  Soon,  however,  recover- 
ing herself,  she  addressed  me  in  the  most  obsequious  manner,  and  spoke  as 
if  she  supposed  I was  come  purposely  to  inquire  after  her  lord  and  lady, 
an  artful  way  of  trying  to  terminate  her  own  suspense  by  learning  the  nature 
of  my  visit.  I soon  gave  her  to  understand  it  w’as  not  of  the  most  amicable 
kind  to  her.  I came,  I said,  to  demand  either  the  letter,  or  an  account  of 
the  letter,  which  I had  intrus'ed  to  her  care  for  Miss  Fitzalan,  which  con- 
tained a note  of  large  value,  and  which,  I found,  had  never  been  received 
by  that  young  lady.  Her  countenance  in  a moment  condemned  her — it 
spoke  stronger  than  a thousand  tongues  against  her.  She  first  grew  deadly 
pale,  then  fiery  red ; trembled,  faltered,  and  hung  her  head,  to  avoid  my 
eyes.  Pier  looks,  I told  her,  confirmed  the  suspicions  I was  forced  to  enter- 
tain of  her  integrity,  yet,  shocking  as  the  action  was  which  she  had  com- 
mitted, being  not  only  a breach  of  trust,  but  humanity,  I was  willing  to 
come  to  an  easy  and  private  accommodation  about  it,  provided  she  would 
truly  and  fully  confess  the  part  she  had  taken,  or  knew  others  to  have  taken. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


3SS 

in  injuring  Miss  Fitzalan,  while  she  resided  in  the  marquis’s  house,  by 
bringing  Colonel  Belgrave  into  it.  I paused  for  her  reply.  She  appeared 
as  if  considering  how  she  should  act.  I thought  I saw  something  yielding 
in  her  face,  and,  eager  to  take  advantage  of  it,  I proceeded ; What  I have 
alread}^  said  I am  going  again  to  repeat,  that  is,  if  you  confess  all  you  know 
relative  to  the  plot  which  was  contrived,  and  carried  into  execution,  in  this 
house,  against  Miss  Fitzalan,  I will  settle  everything  relative  to  the  letter 
and  its  contents  in  a manner  pleasing  to  you.  Her  innocence  is  unques- 
tioned by  me  ; but  it  is  essential  to  her  peace  that  it  should  also  be  so  to  the 
rest  of  her  friends,  and  they  who  regard  her  welfare  will  liberally  reward 
those  whose  allegations  shall  justify  her.” 

Upon  this  she  turned  tome,  with  a countenance  of  the  utmost  effrontery, 
and  said  she  would  not  tell  a lie  to  please  any  one.  I will  not  shock  you 
by  repeating  all  she  said.  She  ended,  by  saying,  as  to  the  letter  she  set  me 
at  defiance ; true,  I had  given  her  one  for  Miss  Fitzalan,  but  I might  remem- 
ber Miss  Fitzalan  was  in  a fit  on  the  ground  at  the  time,  and  she  had  called 
in  other  servants  to  her  assistance,  she  said,  and  in  the  hurry  and  bustle  which 
ensued,  she  knew  not  what  became  of  it ; others  might  as  well  be  called 
upon  as  her.  I could  no  longer  command  my  temper.  I told  her  she  was 
a wretch,  and  only  fit  for  the  diabolical  service  in  which  she  was  employed. 
The  note,  which  I enclosed  in  the  letter  I had  given  her  for  you,  I had 
received  from  my  father’s  agent  in  the  country  : as  a post-note  I had  endorsed 
it,  and  taken  the  number  in  my  pocket-book.  I therefore  left  Portman 
Square,  wi'th  a resolution  of  going  to  the  bank,  and,  if  not  already  received, 
stopping  payment.  I stepped  into  the  first  hackney-coach  I met,  and  had 
the  satisfaction  of  finding  it  had  not  been  offered  at  the  bank.  I suspected 
she  would  be  glad  to  exchange  it  for  cash  as  soon  as  possible,  and  therefore 
left  my  direction,  as  well  as  a request  for  the  detention  of  any  person  who 
should  present  it. 

In  consequence  of  this,  a clerk  came  the  following  morning  to  inform  me 
a w®man  had  presented  the  note  at  the  bank,  and  was,  agreeably  to  my 
request,  detained  till  I appeared.  I immediately  returned  with  him,  and 
had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  the  housekeeper  caught  in  the  snare.  She 
burst  into  tears  at  my  appearance,  and  coming  up  to  me,  in  a low  voice  said, 
“ If  I would  have  mercy  upon  her,  she  would  in  return  make  a full  confes- 
sion of  all  she  knew  about  the  affair  I had  mentioned  to  her  yesterday.”  I 
told  her,  though  she  deserved  no  mercy,  yet,  as  I had  promised  on  such  con- 
dition to  show  her  lenity,  I would  not  violate  my  word.  I received  the  note, 
sent  for  a coach,  and  handing  the  lady  into  it,  soon  conveyed  her  to  Portman 
Square.  She  no  sooner  entered  the  parlor  than  she  fell  on  her  knees  and 
besought  my  forgiveness.  I bade  her  rise,  and  lose  no  time  in  revealing  all 
she  knew  concerning  the  scheme  against  you.  She  then  confessed  that  both 
*jhe  and  Mrs.  Jane,  the  attendant  who  had  been  placed  about  your  person, 
were  acquainted  and  concerned  in  all  the  contrivances  the  marchioness  had 
aid  against  you,  who  scrupled  not  in  acknowledging  to  them  the  inveterate 
hatred  she  bore  you.  Their  scruples — for  they  pretended  to  have  some  in 
ibetting  her  schemes — were  overruled,  by  knowing  how  much  it  was  in  her 
fpower  to  injure  them  in  any  future  establishment,  had  they  disobliged  her, 
ind  by  her  liberal  promises  of  reward,  which  the  housekeeper  added  she  had 
lever  kept.  But  this  brief  and  uncircumstantial  account  was  by  no  means 
satisfactory  to  me.  I called  for  materials  for  writing,  and  insisted  she 
ihould,  to  the  best  of  her  recollection,  relate  every  word  or  circumstance 
which  had  ever  passed  between  her  and  the  marchioness  and  their  other 
associates  relative  to  you.  She  hesitated  at  this.  On  those  terms  only  I said 
I would  grant  her  my  forgiveness;  and  by  her  complying  with  them,  not 


356  THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEk 

only  that,  but  a liberal  recompense  should  be  hers.  ThiV  last  promise  had 
the  desired  effect.  She  laid  open,  indeed,  a scene  of  cor?,  ilicated  iniquity  ; 
related  the  manner  in  which  Coloi^l  Belgrave  was  brou/  it  into  the  house 
by  her  and  Mrs.  Jane  ; how  they  h^  stationed  themselves  in  a place  of  con- 
cealment to  listen,  by  which  means  they  knew  what  pas  ed  between  you, 
which  she  now,  in  almost  the  very  same  words  you  made  \ ie  of,  repeated  to 
me.  As  she  spoke  I wrote  it,  and  made  her  sign  the  p<  per  under  a para- 
graph, purporting  that  it  was  a true  confession  of  the  p;  rt  she  had  taken, 
and  knew  others  to  have  taken,  in  attempting  to  injure  M iss  Fitzalan. 

I now  mentioned  Mrs.  Jane,  whose  evidence  I wished  lor  to  corroborate 
hers.  This  she  assured  me  I might  procure  by  promising  a reward,  as  Mrs. 
Jane  was  much  dissatisfied  with  the  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia, 
neither  of  whom  had  recompensed  her  as  she  expected  for  her  faithful  ser- 
vices to  them.  She  was  now  at  the  villa  ; but  the  housekeeper  added  that 
she  would  strike  out  some  expedient  to  bring  her  to  town  in  the  course  of 
the  week,  and  would  inform  me  immediately  of  her  arrival.  I told  her  the 
affair  of  the  note  should  be  no  more'  mentioned,  and  gave  a bill  for  fifty 
pounds,  as  the  reward  I had  promised,  and  she  eagerly  expected.  I told  her 
she  might  promise  a similar  one  in  my  name  to  Mrs.  Jane,  provided  she 
also  told  truth.  I also  told  her  I would  take  care  she  should  suffer  no  dis* 
tress  by  quitting  the  marquis’s  family,  which  she  lamented  would  be  the 
consequence  of  what  she  had  done. 

Mrs.  Jane  did  not  come  to  town  as  soon  as  I expected.  But  on  receiving 
a summons  to  inform  me  of  her  arrival,  I hastened  to  the  house  like  an 
inquisitor-general  with  my  scroll,  prepared  to  take  the  confession  of  the  fair 
culprit,  which  exactly  corresponded  with  the  housekeeper’s,  and  I had  the 
felicity  of  seeing  her  subscribe  her  name  to  it.  I gave  her  the  promised 
recompense  most  cheerfully,  as  I had  not  half  so  much  trouble  in  making 
her  tell  truth  as  I had  with  the  housekeeper.  Mrs.  Jennings,  your  old  land- 
lady, and  Lady  Greystock’s  faithful  friend,  was  the  next  and  last  person 
whose  malice  I wanted  to  refute.  I made  my  servant  inquire  her  character 
in  the  neighborhood,  and  learned  it  was  considered  a very  suspicious  one, 
I went  to  her  one  morning  in  my  carriage,  well  knowing  that  the  appear- 
ance of  rank  and  splendor  would  have  greater  weight  in  influencing  a being 
like  her  to  justice  than  any  plea  of  conscience.  She  appeared  lost  in  aston- 
ishment and  confusion  at  my  visit,  and  I saw  waited  with  trembling  expecta- 
tion to  have  the  reason  of  it  revealed.  I ki^pt  her  not  long  in  suspense  ; I 
was  the  friend,  I told  her,  of  a young  lady,  whose  character  she  had  vilely 
and  falsely  aspersed.  Her  conscien-ce,  I believed,  would  whisper  to  her 
heart  the  name  of  this  lady,  ana  send  its  crimson  current  to  her  face  at  the 
mention  of  Miss  Fitzalan. 

The  wretch  seemed  ready  to  sink  to  the  earth.  I repeated  to  her  all  she 
had  said  concerning  you  to  Lady  Greystock.  I told  her  of  the  consequences 
of  defamation,  and  declared  she  might  expect  the  utmost  rigor  of  the  law,  ex- 
cept she  confessed  her  assertions  were  infamous  falsehoods,  and  the  motives 
which  instigated  her  to  them.  She  trembled  wdth  terror,  and  supplicated 
mercy.  I desired  her  to  deserve  it  by  her  confession.  She  then  acknowl- 
edged she  had  grossly  and  cruelly  wronged  you  by  what  she  had  said  to 
Lady  Greystock,  and  that  she  had  many  opportunities  of  being  convinced, 
while  you  resided  in  her  house,  that  your  virtue  and  innocence  were  of  the 
purest  nature  ; but  that  she  was  provoked  to  speak  maliciously  against  you 
from  resentment  at  losing  all  the  rich  gifts  Colonel  Belgrave  had  promised 
her  if  she  brought  you  to  comply  with  his  wishes.  She  related  all  the  strata- 
gems they  had  mutually  concerted  for  your  destruction,  and  she  brought  me 
some  letters  which  I have  kept,  from  him  to  you,  and  which  she  pretended 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


357 


you  had  received,  lest  she  should  lose  the  money  he  always  gave  when  she 
was  successful  in  delivering  one.  I bid  her  beware  how  she  ever  attempted 
to  vilify  innocence,  lest  the  friends  of  those  at  whom  she  levelled  the  arrows 
of  defamation  should  not  be  as  merciful  to  her  as  Miss  Fitzalan’s  had  been  ; 
and  was  the  tale  wf  the  slanderer  thus  ever  to  be  minutely  investigated,  the 
evil  might  die  away  by  degrees,  and  many  hapless  victims  escape,  who  are 
daily  sacrificed  to  malice,  revenge,  or  envy. 

Oh  ! my  Amanda,  I cannot  express  the  transports  I felt  when  I found 
the  difficulties,  which  I dreaded  as  intervening  between  me  and  happiness, 
thus  removed.  I felt  myself  the  happiest  of  men  ; my  heart  acknowledged 
your  worth,  I was  convinced  of  your  love,  and  in  my  hands  I held  the  ref- 
utation of  ffilsehood,  and  the  confirmation  of  your  innocence. 

The  period  for  mentioning  my  project  was  now  arrived.  I desired,  the 
morning  after  my  visit  to  Mrs.  Jennings,  to  be  indulged  in  a tHe-a-icte  in 
Lady  Martha’s  dressing-room.  I believed  she  half  guessed  what  the  sub- 
ject of  it  would  be  ; she  saw  by  my  countenance  there  was  joyful  news  at 
hand.  I shall  not  recapitulate  our  conversation  ; suffice  it  to  say,  that  her 
excellent  feeling  heart  participated  largely  in  my  satisfaction ; it  did  more 
than  participate,  it  wished  to  increase  it,  and  ere  I could  mention  my  pro- 
ject, she  declared  my  Amanda  should  henceforth  be  considered  as  her 
adopted  daughter,  and  should  from  her  receive  such  a fortune  as  such  a title 
claimed.  Yes,  my  Amanda,  the  fortune  she  ever  destined  for  me,  she  said 
she  should  now  consecra'te  to  the  purpose  of  procuring  me  a treasure  the 
most  valuable  Heaven  could  bestow; — the  richest — the  most  valuable  indeed 
— a treasure  dearer,  far  dearer  to  my  soul  for  all  the  dangers  it  has  encoun- 
tered. I fell  at  Lady  Martha’s  feet  in  a transport  of  gratitude,  and  acknowl- 
edged that  she  had  anticipated  what  I was  going  to  say,  as  I had  been 
determined  to  throw  myself  on  her  generosity  from  the  time  I was  con- 
vinced of  your  inflexible  resolution,  not  to  unite  yourself  to  me  without  you 
brought  a fortune. 

It  was  now  agreed  we  should  keep  Lord  Cherbury  a little  longer  igno- 
rant of  our  intentions.  We  proposed  taking  the  marchioness  and  Lady  Eu- 
phrasia by  surprise,  and  hoped,  by  so  doing,  to  be  able  to  remove  from  his 
eyes  the  mist  which  partially  had  hitherto  spread  before  them,  to  obscure 
the  defects  of  the  above-mentioned  ladies. 

He  had  hinted  more  than  once  his  wishes  for  my  paying  my  compliments 
at  the  marquis’s  villa.  I now  proposed  going  thither  myself  the  ensuing 
day.  He  looked  equally  surprised  and  pleased  at  this  proposal  : Lady 
Martha  agreed  to  accompany  me,  and  his  lordship,  you  may  be  sure,  deter- 
mined to  be  one  of  the  party,  that  he  might  supply  the  deficiencies  of  his 
son,  which  he  had  heretofore  found  pretty  manifest  in  such  society. 

We  had  the  happiness  to  find  all  the  family  at  home  when  we  reached 
the  villa.  The  ladies  all  expressed  themselves  delighted  at  my  unexpected 
appearance,  and  quite  charmed  by  my  recovered  looks.  The  marquis,  with 
his  usual  sang  froid,  declared  himself  glad  to  see  me.  Ye  smiling  deceivers, 
I cried  to  myself,  as  I surveyed  the  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia,  your 
triumph  over  innocence  and  beauty  will  soon  be  over.  After  passing  half 
an  hour  in  uninteresting  chitchat,  I took  the  opportunity  of  one  of  those 
pauses  in  conversation,  which  so  frequently  happen,  to  commence  my  attack. 
Tt  would  be  as  painful  to  you  as  to  me  to  recapitulate  all  which  ensued  in 
consequence  of  it.  Rage,  guilt,  and  confusion,  were  conspicuous  in  the 
marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia.  The  marquis  and  Lady  Greystock 
‘ looked  with  astonishment,  and  my  father  seemed  overwhelmed  with  surprise 
and  consternation. 

I said  (addressing  the  marchioness],  I now  trusted  the  resentment  her 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  ^ 


35S 

ladyship  had  entertained  against  her  unoffending  niece  was  sufficiently  ap« 
peased  by  what  she  had  made  her  suffer,  and  that  she  would  rather  rejoice 
than  regret  the  opportunity  which  presented  itself  of  vindicating  her  fame. 
I wished,  I said,  as  much  as  possible,  to  spare  her  ladyship's  feelings,  and 
provided  she  would  clear  Miss  Fitzalan  from  the  obloquy  which  the  trans- 
actions in  her  house  cast  upon  her,  I was  willing  to  conceal  the  share  her 
ladyship  had  in  them. 

In  a voice  of  smothered  rage,  and  with  a look  into  which  she  threw  as 
much  contempt  as  possible,  she  replied,  “ She  thanked  me  for  the  attention 
I professed  myself  inclined  to  pay  her  feelings  ; but  she  fancied  I had  over- 
looked all  inclination  of  this  kind  when  I undertook  to  bribe  her  servants 
to  asperse  her  character,  that  Miss  Fitzalan's  might  be  cleared.  She  was 
sorry,”  she  said,  “to  find  I could  be  capable  of  such  complicated  baseness 
and  weakness.  Miss  Fitzalan,  she  perceived,  had  made  me  her  dupe  again-, 
but  this  was  not  surprising,  as  she  was  the  professed  pupil  of  art.  Too  late 
I should  behold  her  in  her  native  colors,  and  find  the  disgrace,  which,  by 
artifice,  I now  attempted  to  remove  from  her  character,  thrown  back  upon 
her,  perhaps,  to  everwhelm  me  also  by  its  weight.” 

“ She  has  infatuated  him,”  said  Lord  Cherbury  ; “ she  will  be  the 
bane  of  his  life,  the  destruction  of  my  hopes.”  “ Not  Miss  Fitzalan,”  cried 
I,  assuming  as  much  coolness  as  possible,  though,  like  the  marchioness,  I 
found  it  a difficult  task  ; “ not  Miss  Fitzalan,  but  the  enemies  of  Miss  Fitz- 
alan deceived  me.  I own  I was  the  dupe  of  the  scheme  contrived  against 
her.  Anything  so  horrid,  so  monstrous,  so  execrable,  I did  not  think  could 
have  entered  into  the  minds  of  those  who  were  bound  by  the  united  ties  of 
kindred  and  hospitality  to  protect  her,  and  I rather  believed  I owed  my 
misery  to  the  frailty  than  to  the  turpitude  of  human  nature.”  “ Y ou  see, 
my  lord,”  exclaimed  the  marchioness,  turning  to  Lord  Cherbury,  “ Lord 
Mortimer  acknowledges  his  passion  for  this  wretched  girl.”  “ I do,”  cried 
I,  “ I glory  in  confessing  it.  In  loving  Miss  Fitzalan,  I love  virtue  itself. 
In  acknowledging  a passion  for  her,  I violate  no  faith,  I break  no  engage- 
ment; my  heart  ever  resisted  entering  into  any  which  it  could  not  fulfil.” 
“Unfortunate  prepossession,”  said  Lord  Cherbury,  s-ternly.  “ But  why, 
why,  when  you  believed  her  guilty,  were  you  so  infatuated  as  to  follow  her 
to  Ireland  ? Why  not  calmly  resign  her  to  the  infamy  she  merited  } ” “I 
followed  her  my  lord,”  I replied,  “ in  hope  to  withdraw  her  from  her 
seducer’s  arms,  and  place  her  in  her  father’s.  I hoped,  I trusted,  I should 
be  able  also  to  alleviate  the  bitter  destiny  of  poor  Fitzalan.  Alas ! not  in 
the  arms  of  a gay,  successful  seducer,  but  apparently  in  the  arms  of  death, 
did  I find  Amanda.  I saw  her  at  the  solemn  hour  which  consigned  her 
parent  to  his  grave,  and  to  have  doubted  her  protestations  of  innocence  then 
would  have  been  almost  impious.  Gracious  Heaven  ! how  impossible  to 
disbelieve  her  truth  at  the  very  moment  her  gentle  spirit  seemed  about  to 
take  its  flight  to  heaven  ! From  that  period  she  has  stood  acquitted  in  my 
mind,  and  from  that  period  I determined  to  develop,  to  the  utmost  of  my 
power,  the  machinations  which  had  made  me  doubt  her  innocence.  My 
success  in  their  development  has  been  beyond  my  expectations  ; but  Prov 
idence  is  on  the  side  of  suffering  virtue,  and  assists  those  who  stand  up  in 
its  support.”  Contrary  to  my  first  intention,  my  dear  Amanda,  I have 
given  you  a sketch  of  part  of  our  conversation.  For  the  remainder,  it  shall 
suffice  to  say,  that  the  marchioness  persevered  in  declaring  I had  bribed  her 
servants  to  blacken  her  character,  in  order  to  clear  Miss  Fitzalan’s,  an  at- 
tempt, she  repeatedly  assured  me,  I would  find  unsuccessful. 

The  marquis  talked  in  high  terms  of  the  dignity  of  his  house,  and  how 
impossible  it  was  the  marchioness  should  ever  have  disgraced  it  by  such 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


359 


iictions  as  I accused  her  of  committing.  I answered  him  in  a manner 
-equally  warm,  that  my  accusations  were  too  well  grounded  and  supported  to 
dread  refutation.  That  it  was  not  only  due  to  injured  innocence,  but  essen- 
tial to  my  own  honor,  which  would  soon  be  materially  concerned  in  what- 
ever related  to  Miss  Fitzalan,  to  have  those  accusations  made  public,  if  her 
ladyship  refused  to  contradict  the  aspersions  which  might  be  thrown  upon 
Miss  Fitzalan,  in  consequence  of  the  scene  which  passed  at  his  lordship’s 
house. 

This  the  marchioness,  with  mingled  rage  and  contempt,  refused  doing, 
and  Lady  Euphrasia,  after  the  hint  I gave  of  soon  being  united  to  you,  left 
the  room  in  convulsive  agitation 

Lord  Cherbury,  I perceived,  suspected  foul  play,  by  some  speeches  which 
dropped  from  him,  such  as,  if  there  had  been  any  misunderstanding  between 
her  ladyship  and  Miss  Fitzalan,  it  was  better  surely  to  have  it  done  away,  or 
certainly,  if  any  mistake  was  proved  relative  to  the  affair  which  happened 
in  her  ladyship’s  house,  it  was  but  justice  to  the  young  lady  to  have  it 
cleared  up. 

Yet,  notwithstanding  the  interest  he  felt  in  the  cause  of  suffering  inno- 
cence, it  was  obvious  to  me  that  he  dreaded  a rupture  with  the  marquis’s 
family,  and  appeared  shocked  at  the  unequivocal  declaration  I had  made  of 
never  being  allied  to  it. 

Lady  Martha  Dormer  took  up  the  cause.  The  testimony  Lord  Mortimei 
had  received,  she  said,  of  Miss  Fitzalan’s  innocence  was  incontrovertible, 
and  exempted  him  alike  from  being  stigmatized  either  as  the  dupe  of  art 
or  love.  Humanity,  she  was  convinced,  exclusive  of  every  warmer  feel- 
ing, would  have  influenced  him  to  have  undertaken  Miss  P'itzalan’s  cause  ; 
it  was  the  cause  of  innocence  and  virtue — a cause  in  which  every  detester 
of  scandal  and  treachery  should  join,  since  not  only  the  defenceless  orphan, 
but  the  protected  child  of  rank  and  prosperity,  was  vulnerable  to  their 
shafts. 

I again  repeated  the  evidence  of  her  servants,  and  the  refutation  of 
Mrs.  Jennings  to  her  former  story.  I produced,  to  strengthen  it,  the  un- 
opened letters  of  Colonel  Belgrave — thus  continuing  to  put  proof  upon 
proof  of  your  innocence,  as  Sancho  Panza  says,  upon  the  shoulders  of 
demonstration. 

The  passions  of  the  marchioness  rose  at  last  to  frantic  violence..  She 
persisted  in  alleging  her  integrity,  and  vilifying  yours ; but  with  a countenance 
so  legibly  impressed  with  guilt  and  confusion,  that  a doubt  of  her  falsehood 
could  not  be  entertained  even  by  those  who  wished  to  doubt  it. 

The  scene  of  violence  we  now  became  witness  to  was  painful  to  me,  and 
shocking  to  Lady  Martha.  I therefore  ordered  the  horses  immediately  to 
her  ladyship’s  chariot,  in  which,  accompanied  by  me,  she  had  preceded  Lord 
Cherbury’s  coach,  from  the  idea  that  our  continuance  at  the  villa  might  not 
be  quite  so  long  as  his  lordship’s. 

As  we  expected,  his  lordship  stayed  behind,  with  the  hope,  I perceived, 
of  being  able  to  calm  the  perturbations  of  the  marchioness,  and  lessen  the 
breach  between  us.  He  returned  the  next  day  to  town.  I have  so  long 
dwelt  upon  disagreeable  scenes,  that  to  go  over  any  others  would  be  dread- 
ful ; nor  should  I hint  to  you  that  I had  such  scenes  to  encounter,  was  it 
not  to  excuse  and  account  to  you  for  my  absence  from  Castle  Carberry.  Our 
difficulties  (you  see  I already  unite  your  interests  with  mine)  began  to 
decrease,  and  are  at  last  happily  overcome.  I.ady  Martha  made  me  write 
her  intentions  relative  to  you,  and  his  lordship  was  quite  satisfied  with 
them.  He  authorizes  me  to  assure  you  he  longs  to  receive  you  into  his 
family,  at  once  a boast  and  acquisition  to  it,  and  he  says,  he  shall  consider 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


360 

himself  under  obligations  to  you,  if  you  hasten,  as  much  as  possible,  the 
period  of  becoming  one  of  its  members,  thus  giving  him  an  opportunity  of 
making  early  amends^  by  attention  to  the  daughter,  for  the  injustice  he  did 
the  father. 

Lady  Martha  Dormer’s  intentions  I have  only  hinted  to  you  j in  the  let- 
ter, which  I have  the  pleasure  of  enclosing,  she  is  more  explicit  concerning 
them.  I have  given  you  this  long  narrative  on  paper,  that  when  w^e  meet 
our  conversation  may  be  unembittered  by  any  painful  retrospect,  and  that 
we  may  enjoy  uninterrupted  the  bright  prospect  which  now  lies  before  us. 

But  ere  I close  my  letter,  I must  inform  you  that,  knowing  you  could 
never  be  selfishly  wrapped  up  in  your  own  enjoyments,  I made  every  possi- 
ble  inquiry  relative  to  your  brother,  and  was  at  length  referred  by  the  agent 
of  his  late  regiment  to  an  officer  in  it;  with  some  difficulty  I found  he  had 
quitted  his  quarters  on  leave  of  absence,  I wrote  immediately  to  his  family 
residence,  and  after  waiting  long  and  impatiently  for  an  answer  to  my  letter, 
I dispatched  a special  messenger  to  learn  whether  he  was  there  or  not.  The 
courier  returned  with  a polite  note  from  the  officer’s  father,  informing  me 
his  son  was  gone  on  an  excursion  of  pleasure  with  some  friends,  and  that 
if  he  knew  where  to  find  him,  he  would  have  transmitted  my  letter,  which  I. 
might  depend  on  being  answ^ered  the  moment  he  returned  I have  no  doubt 
but  we  shall  receive  intelligence  from  him  concerning  Mr.  Fitzalan.  It 
shall  then  be  our  business,  if  his  situation  is  not  already  pleasing,  to  change 
it,  or  render  it  as  much  so  as  possible  to  him.  Keep  up  your  spirits,  there- 
fore, about  him,  for  by  the  time  we  arrive  in  England  I expect  a letter  from 
his  friend,  and  let  me  not  be  any  more  pained  by  seeing  your  countenance 
clouded  with  care  or  anxiety.  As  a reward  for  reining  in  my  impatience  to 
see  you  this  evening,  be  propitious  to  my  request  for  early  admission  to- 
morrow. If  charitable,  you  will  allow  me  to  breakfast  with  you,  for  I shall 
take  none  except  with  you ; and  without  an  express  command  to  the  con- 
trary, shall  take  it  for  granted  I am  expected.  'Tis  said  that  contrast 
heightens  pleasure,  and  I believe  the  saying — I believe  that,  without  having 
felt  pain  in  all  its  acuteness,  as  I have  done,  I never  should  have  felt  such 
pleasure  as  I now  enjoy.  After  so  often  giving  you  up,  so  often  lamenting 
you  as  lost  forever,  to  think  I shall  soon  call  you  mine,  is  a source  of  trans- 
port which  words  cannot  express.  Mine,  I may  say,  is  the  resurrection  of 
happiness,  for  has  it  not  been  revived  from  the  very  grave  of  despair.^  But 
I forgot  that  you  have  Lady  Martha  Dormer’s  letter  still  to  peruse.  I ac- 
knowledge that,  for  old  friendship’s  sake,  I supposed  you  would  give  mine 
the  preference ; but  in  all  reason  it  is  time  I should  resign  my  place  to  her 
ladyship.  But  ere  I bid  you  adieu,  I must  tell  you  that  Araminta  is  a sin- 
cere participator  in  our  happiness.  She  arrived  from  Wales  but  a few  min- 
utes previous  to  my  leaving  London,  and  I would  not  allow  her  time,  as  she 
wished,  to  write  to  you.  I almost  forgot  to  tell  you  that  the  marquis’s  fam- 
ily, amongst  whom  Lady  Greystock  is  still  numbered,  instead  of  returning 
to  town,  set  out  for  Erighthelmstone.  I have  learned,  contrary  to  my  and 
their  expectations,  thavl  neither  the  housekeeper  nor  Mrs.  Jane  have  been 
dismissed,  but  both  sent  to  a distant  seat  of  the  marquis’s.  As  we  know 
:he  marchioness’s  revengeful  disposition,  it  is  plain  she  has  some  secret 
motive  for  not  gratifying  it  immediately  by  their  dismission  ; but  what  it  is 
can  be  of  little  consequence  for  us  to  learn,  since  we  are  both  too  well 
guarded  to  suffer  from  any  future  plot  of  hers.  Like  every  other  which  was 
formed  against  my  dear  Amanda,  I trust  they  will  ever  prove  abortive.  I'  was 
disturbed  within  a few  miles  of  Castle  Carberry  by  a gentleman  passing  on 
horseback,  w'ho  either  strongly  resembled,  or  was  Colonel  Belgrave.  My 
Dlood  boiled  in  my  veins  at  his  sight.  I left  the  carriage,  mounted  one  of 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


sny  servanx’s  horses,  and  endeavored  to  overtake  hiih.  He  certainly  avoided 
me  by  taking  some  cross-road,  as  his  speed  could  not  have  outstripped 
mine.  My  efforts  to  discover  his  habitation  were  equally  unsuccessful.  As 
to  your  personal  security  I had  no  apprehensions,  having  heard  constantly 
from  my  good  friend  the  doctor  about  you  ; but  I dreaded  the  wretch,  if  it 
were  really  him,  might  disturb  your  tranquillity,  either  by  forcing  into  your 
presence,  or  writing.  Thank  Heaven,  from  all  intrusions  or  dangers  of  this 
kind  my  Amanda  will  now  be  guarded.  13ut  again  am  I trespassing  on  the 
time  you  should  devote  to  Lady  Martha’s  letter.  Adieu,  and  do  not  disap- 
point my  hopes  of  being  allowed  to  visit  you  early. 

Mortimer. 

Amanda  perused  this  letter  with  emotions  which  can  be 
better  conceived  than  described.  She  could  scarcely  have 
parted  with  it  without  a second  reading,  had  not  Lady  Martha's 
demanded  her  attention.  She  snatched  it  hastily  from  the 
ground  where  it  hitherto  lay  neglected,  and  read  to  the  follow^ 
ing  purpose  : — 

That  I warmly  and  sincerely  congratulate  my  dear  and  amiable  Miss 
Fitzalan  on  the  happy  revolution  in  her  affairs,  she  will  readily  believe,  per- 
suaded as  she  must  be  of  the  deep  interest  I take  in  whatever  concerns  a 
person  on  whom  the  happiness  of  him  whom  I have  loved  from  childhood 
so  materially — so  entirelv,  I may  say — depends. 

Yet  do  not  suppose  me,  my  dear  Miss  Fitzalan,  so  selfish  as  not  to  be 
able  to  rejoice  at  your  happiness  on  your  own  account,  exclusive  of  every 
consideration  relative  to  Lord  Mortimer.  Long  since  I was  taught  by  de* 
scription  to  esteem  and  admire  you,  and  even  when  the  hope  of  being  con- 
nected with  you  became  extinct,  I could  not  so  totally  forego  that  admiration 
as  to  feel  uninterested  about  you.  Oh  1 how  truly  do  I rejoice  at  the  re- 
vival of  the  hope  I have  just  mentioned,  and  at  its  revival  with  every  p.ros- 
pect  of  its  being  speedily  realized ! I shall  consider  Lord  Mortimer  as  one 
of  the  most  fortunate  of  men  in  calling  you  his,  and  to  think  I hav&  been 
able  to  promote  hit  happiness  gives  me  a satisfaction  which  never  was,  nor 
ever  will  be,  equalled  by  any  circumstance  in  my  life. 

Though  I cannot  give  my  adopted  daughter  a fortune  by  any  means 
equal  to  that  which  Lady  Euphrasia  Sutherland  will  possess,  Lord  Cherbury 
is  fully  sensible  that  her  perfections  will  abundantly  make  up  for  any  de- 
ficiency ill  this  respect.  Ten  thousa.nd  pounds,  and  one  thousand  a year,  is 
at  present  to  be  her  portion,  and  the  reversion  of  the  remainder  of  my  for- 
tune is  to  be  secured  to  her  and  Lord  Mortimer;  the  final  adjustment  of 
all  affairs  is  to  take  place  at  my  house  in  the  country,  whither  I propose 
going  immediately,  accompanied  by . Lady  Araminta,  and  where  we  shall 
both  most  impatiently  expect  your  arrival,  which,  we  mutually  entreat,  may 
be  hastened  as  much  as  possible,  consistent  with  your  health  and  conve- 
nience. Lord  Cherbury  has  promised  to  follow  us  in  a few  days,  so  that  I 
suppose  he  will  also  be  at  Thornbury  to  receive  you.  Would  to  Heaven, 
my  dear  Miss  Fitzalan,  injured  virtue  and  innocence  may  always  meet  with 
such  champions  to  vindicate  them  as  Lord  Mortim.er,  Was  that  the  case, 
we  should  see  many  lovely  victims  of  scorn  and  reproach  raising  their  heads 
with  triumph 'and  satisfaction.  But  pardon  my  involuntarily  adverting  to 
past  scenes,  though,  at  the  same  time,  I think  you  have  reason  to  rejoice 
at  your  trials,  which  served  as  so  many  tests  and  proofs  of  the  estimable 


THE  CHILDREH  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


362 

qualities  you  possess.  Farewell,  my  dear  Miss  Fitzalan.  I have  been  brfe?t 
in  my  letter,  because  I know  I should  not  he  pardoned  by  a certain  persori, 
if  I engrossed  too  much  of  your  time.  I told  him  I would  give  you  a hint 
of^  the  impetuosity  of  his  disposition  ; but  he  told  me,  perhaps  to  prevent 
this,  that  you  were  already  acquainted  with  it.  In  one  instance  I shall 
commend  him  for  displaying  it : that  is,  in  hastening  you  to  Thornbury,  to 
the  arms  of  your  sincere  and  affectionate  friend, 

Martha  Dormer. 

Amanda’s  happiness  was  now  almost  as  great  as  it  could 
be  in  this  world  ; almost  I say,  for  it  received  alloy  from  the 
melancholy  consideration  that  her  father,  that  faithful  and  af- 
fectionate friend  who  had  shared  her  troubles,  could  not  be  a 
partaker  of  her  joys ; but  the  sigh  of  unavailing  regret  which 
rose  in  her  mind  she  checked,  by  reflecting,  that  happiness  all 
perfect  was  more  than  humanity  could  either  support  or  expect, 
and  with  pious  gratitude  she  bent  to  the  Power  who  had 
changed  the  discolored  prospect,  by  which  she  had  been  so 
long  surrounded,  into  one  of  cheerfulness  and  beauty. 

If  her  pride  was  wounded  by  the  hint,  though  so  delicately 
conveyed,  which  Lord  Mortimer  had  given  of  the  difficulties  he 
encountered  in  gaining  Lord  Cherbury’s  approbation,  it  was 
instantly  relieved  by  the  flattering  commendations  of  Lady 
Martha  Dormer,  and  to  be  connected  with  her  and  Lady  Ara- 
minta,  she  looked  upon  amongst  the  most  valuable  blessings 
die  could  enjoy. 

To  express  what  she  felt  for  Lord  Mortimer  would  be  im- 
'^Vossible — language  could  not  do  justice  to  her  feelings — she 
elt  love,  gratitude,  and  admiration  for  him,  all  in  the  fullest 
extent,  and  all  united,  and  she  wept  in  the  fulness  of  her  heart 
wer  the  joyful  assurance  of  being  his.  With  4:he  two  letters  in 
her  hand,  she  repaired  to  the  prioress’s  apartment,  whom  she 
found  alone.  The  good  old  lady  saw  the  traces  of  tears  on 
4manda’s  face,  and  exclaimed,  in  a voice  which  evinced  her 
sympathy  in  her  concerns,  ‘‘Oh!  I fear,  my  child,  something 
has  happened  to  disturb  you  1 ” Amanda  presented  her  the 
letters,  and  bid  her  judge  from  them  whether  she  had  not 
reason  to  be  agitated.  As  the  prioress  read,  her  sudden  and 
broken  exclamations  manifested  her  surprise  and  pleasure,  and 
frequently  were  her  spectacles  removed  to  wipe  from  off  them 
the  tears  of  joy  by  which  they  were  bedewed.  When  she  fin- 
ished the  welcome  packet,  she  turned  to  Amanda,  who  had 
been  attentively  v^atching  the  various  turns  in  her  countenance, 
and  gave  her  a congratulatory  embrace.  “ Lord  Mortimer  is 
worthy  of  3^ou,  my  child,”  said  the  prioress,  “ and  that  is  the 
highest  eulogium  I can  pass  on  him.”  After  commenting  upon 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBE\.  363 

different  parts  of  the  letter,  she  asked  Amanda  a little  archly, 
“whether  she  intended  sending  an  express  command  to  his 
lordship  against  coming  early  in  the  morning  ? Amanda 
honestly  confessed  she  had  no  such  intention,  and  expressed 
her  wish  to  behold  him.  The  prioress  said  she  would  have 
breakfast  prepared  for  them  in  the  garden  parlor,  and  that  she 
would  take  care  they  should  not  be  interrupted.  She  also 
promised  to  keep  everything  secret  till  matters  were  arranged 
for  Amanda’s  removal  from  St.  Catherine’s. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

“ Thus  let  me  hold  thee  to  my  heart, 

And  every  care  resign  ; 

And  shall  we  never — never  part. 

Oh  I thou  my  all  that’s  mine.” — Goldsmith.  - 

Joy  is  as  great  an  enemy  to  repose  as  anxiety.  Amand^a 
passed  an  almost  sleepless  night,  but  her  thoughts  were  too 
agreeably  employed  to  allow  her  to  suffer  from  want  of  rest ; 
early  as  she  arose  in  the  morning,  she  was  but  a short  time  in 
the  parlor  before  Lord  Mortimer  arrived.  He  appeared  with 
all  the  transports  of  his  soul  beaming  from  his  eyes,  and  was 
received  by  Amanda  with  tender  and  trembling  emotion.  He 
caught  her  to  his  heart  as  a treasure  restored  to  him  by  the 
immediate  hand  of  Heaven.  He  pressed  her  to  it  with  silent 
ecstasy.  Both  for  a few  moments  were  unable  to  speak ; but 
the  tears  which  burst  from  Amanda,  and  those  that  stopped 
on  the  glowing  cheeks  of  Lord  Mortimer,  expressed  their  feel- 
ings more  forcibly  than  any  language  couldjiave  done. 

Amanda  at  length  found  utterance,  and  began  to  thank  his 
lordship  for  all  the  difficulties  he  had  gone  through  in  vindica- 
ting her  fame.  He  hastily  stopped  those  effusions  of  gratitude, 
by  bidding  her  ask  her  heart  whether  he  had  not  been  serving 
himself  as  well  as  her  by  what  he  had  done. 

From  the  soft  confusion  into  which  his  transports  threw  her, 
Amanda  endeavored  to  recover  herself  by  repairing  to  the 
breakfast  table,  on  which  the  good  sisters  had  spread  all  the 
niceties  (adapted  for  a morning  repast)  which  the  convent 
could  produce  : but  her  hand  was  unsteady,  she  spilt  the  tea 
in  pouring  it  out,  and  committed  twenty  blunders  in  helping 


364  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

Lord  Mortimer.  He  laughed  a little  archly  at  her  embarrass* 
ment,  and,  insisted  on  doing  the  honors  of  the  table  himself,  to 
which  Amanda,  with  a deep  blush,  consented ; but  breakfast 
was  little  attended  to.  Amanda’s  hand  was  detained  in  Lord 
Mortimer’s,  while  his  eyes  were  continually  turning  towards 
her,  as  if  to  assure  his  heart  that,  in  the  lovely  evidence  of  his 
happiness,  there  was  no  deception  ; and  the  tenderness  Amand 
had  no  longer  reason  to  restrain  beamed  from  her  looks,  which 
also  evinced  her  perfect  sensibility  of  her  present  felicity — 
felicity  heightened  by  her  approving  conscience  testifying  she 
had  merited  it.  The  pure,  the  delightful  satisfaction  resulting 
from  this  reflection  gave  such  radiance  to  her  complexion, 
that  Lord  Mortimer  repeatedly  declared  her  residence  at  St. 
Catherine’s  had  made  her  more  beautiful  than  ever.  Twelve 
o’clock  struck,  and  found  them  still  loitering  over  the  breakfast 
table.  ‘‘The  nuns  will  think  we  have  made  a tolerable  feast,” 
cried  Lord  Mortimer,  smiling,  while  Amanda  rose  with  precipb 
tation.  “ I need  not,”  continued  he,  following  her,  “ like 
Sterne,  ask  nature  what  has  made  the  meal  so  delicious ; I 
need  only  ask  my  own  heart,  and  it  will  inform  me,  love  and 
tenderness.  Amanda  blushed,  and  they  went  together  into  the 
garden.  She  would  have  walked  before  the  windows  of  the 
convent,  but  Lord  Mortimer  forced  her  gently  into  a dark, 
sequestered  alley.  Here  their  conversation  became  more  con- 
nected than  it  had  been  hitherto.  The  generous  intentions  of 
Lady  Martlia  Dormer,  and  the  arrangements  she  had  made  for 
the  reception  and  nuptials  of  Amanda,  were  talked  over.  The 
marriage  was  to  take  place  at  Thornbury,  Lady  Martha’s  seat ; 
they  were  to  continue  there  for  a month  after  its  solemnization, 
and  from  thence  to  go  to  an  .estate  of  Lord  Cherbury’s  for  the 
remainder  of  the  summer  ; a house  in  one  of  the  squares  was 
to  be  taken  and  prepared  for  their  residence  in  winter,  and 
Lady  Martha  Dormer  had  promised,  whenever  she  came  to 
town,  which  was  but  seldom,  she  would  make  their  house  her 
home,  provided  they  would  promise  to  spend  every  Christmas, 
and  three  months  at  least  in  summer,  with  her  at  Thornbury. 
Lord  Mortimer  said  he  had  his  choice  of  any  of  the  earl’s 
seats,  but  chose  none,  from  an  idea  of  the  Hall  being  more 
agreeable  to  Amanda.  She  assured  him  it  was,  and  he  pro- 
ceeded to  mention  the  presents  which  Lady  Martha  had  pre- 
jDared  for  her,  also  the  carriages  and  retinue  he  had  provided, 
and  expected  to  find  at  Thornbury  against  she  reached  it,  still 
asking  if  the  arrangements  he  had  made  met  her  approbation. 

Amanda  was  affected  even  to  tears  by  the  solicitude  he 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


365 

showed  to  ^^lease  her  j and  he,  perceiving  her  emotions, 
changed  the  discourse  to  talk  about  her  removal  from  St. 
Catherine’s.  He  entreated  her  not  to  delay  it  longer  than  was 
absolutely  necessary  to  adjust  matters  for  it.  She  promised 
compliance  to  this  entreaty,  acknowledging  that  she  but  obeyed 
her  inclinations  in  doing  so,  as  she  longed  to  be  presented  to 
her  generous  patroness.  Lady  Martha,  and  to  her  amiable  and 
beloved  Lady  Araminta.  Lord  Mortimer,  delicately  considerate 
about  all  which  concerned  her,  begged  she  would  speak  to  the 
prioress  to  procure  a decent  female,  who  should  be  a proper 
attendant  for  her  in  her  journey.  They  should  travel  together 
in  one  chaise,  and  he  would  follow  them  in  another.  Amanda 
promised  she  would  lose  no  time  in  making  this  request,  which, 
she  had  no  doubt,  would  be  successful. 

Lord  Mortimer  presented  her  with  a very  beautiful  embroid^ 
ered  purse,  containing  notes  to  the  amount  of  five  hundred 
pounds.  ' Amanda  blushed  deeply,  and  felt  her  feelings  a little 
hurt  at  the  idea  of  being  obliged  to  Lord  Mortimer  for  every- 
thing. He  pressed  her  hand,  and  in  a voice  of  soothing  ten- 
derness, told  her  he  should  be  offended  if  she  did  not,  from 
this  moment,  consider  her  interest  inseparable  from  his.  The 
notes,  he  said,  of  right  belonged  to  her,  as  they  amounted  to 
but  the  individual  sum  he  had  already  devoted  to  her  use.  He 
requested  she  would  not  curb  in  the  least  her  generous  spirit, 
but  fulfil,  to  the  utmost  extent,  all  the  claims  which  gratitude 
had  upon  her.  The  benevolent  sisters  of  St.  Catherine’s  were 
the  foremost  in  the  list  of  those  who  had  conferred  obligations 
upon  her,  and  he  desired  she  would  not  only  reward  them 
liberally  at  present,  but  promise  them  an  annual  stipend  of 
fifty  pounds. 

Amanda  was  truly  delighted  at  this.  To  be  able  to  con- 
tribute to  the  comfort  of  those  who  had  so  largely  promoted 
hers,  was  a source  of  exquisite  felicity.  Lord  Mortimer  pre- 
sented her  with  his  picture,  which  he  had  drawn  in  London  for 
that  purpose.  It  was  a striking  likeness,  and  most  elegantly 
set  with  brilliants,  which  formed  a cipher  upon  a plait  of  hair 
It  the  back.  This  was  indeed  a precious  present  to  Amanda, 
ind  she  acknowledged  it  was  such.  Lord  Mortimer  said,  that 
in  return  for  it  he  should  expect  hers  at  some  future  time 
%ut  added,  smiling,  ‘‘  I shall  not  heed  the  shadow  till  I procure 
the  substance.”  He  also  gave  her  a very  beautiful  ring,  with 
an  emblematical  device,  and  adorned  in  the  same  manner  as 
his  picture,  which  Lady  Martha  had  sent  as  a pledge  of  future 
friendship ; and  he  now  informed  her,  “ that  her  ladyship, 


366  THJE  children  of  the  ADEEV. 

accompanied  by  Lady  Araminta,  intended  meeting  them  at 
Holyhead,  that  ah  due  honor  and  attention  might  be  paid  to 
her  adopted  daughter.’’ 

In  the  midst  of  their  conversation  the  dinner-bell  rang 
from  the  convent.  Amanda  started,  and  declared  she  had  not 
supposed  it  half  so  late.  The  arch  smile  which  this  speech 
occasioned  in  Lord  Mortimer,  instantly  made  her  perceive  it 
had  been  a tacit  confession  of  the  pleasure  she  enjoyed  in 
their  tete-a-tete. 

She  blushed,  and  telling  him  she  could  not  stay  anothei 
moment,  was  hurrying  away.  He  hastily  caught  her,  and  hold 
ing  both  her  hands,  declared  she  should  not  depart,  neithei 
would  he  to  his  solitary  dinner,  till  she  promised  he  might 
return  to  her  early  in  the  evening.  To  this  she  consented, 
provided  he  allowed  her  to  have  the  prioress  and  Sister  Mary 
at  least  at  tea.  This  was  a condition  Lord  Mortimer  by  no 
means  liked  to  agree  to,  and  he  endeavored  to  prevail  on  her 
to  drop  it;  but  finding  her  inflexible,  he  said  she  was  a pro- 
voking girl,  and  asked  her  if  she  was  not  afraid  that,  when  he 
had  the  power,  he  would  retaliate  upon  her  for  all  the  trials 
she  put  his  patience  to.  But  since  she  would  have  it  so,  why, 
it  must  be  so  to  be  sure,  he  said ; but  he  hoped  the  good  ladies 
would  have  too  much  conscience  to  sit  out  the  whole  evening 
with  them.  That  was  all  chance,  Amanda  said.  The  belf 
again  rang,  and  he  was  forced  to  depart. 

She  took  the  opportunity  of  being  alone  with  the  prioress 
for  a few  minutes,  to  speak  to  her  about  procuring  a female  to 
attend  her  in  her  journey.  The  prioress  said  she  doubted  not 
but  she  could  procure  her  an  eligible  person  from  the  neigh- 
boring town,  and  promised  to  write  there  that  very  evening,  to 
a family  who  would  be  able  to  assist  her  inquiries. 

Both  she  and  Sister  Mary  were  much  pleased  by  being  in- 
vited to  drink  tea  with  Lord  Mortimer.  He  came  even  earliei 
than  was  expected.  Poor  Amanda  was  terrified,  lest  her  com- 
panions should  overhear  him  repeatedly  asking  her,  whether 
they  would  not  retire  immediately  after  tea.  Though  not  over- 
heard, the  prioress  had  too  much  sagacity  not  to  know  hei 
departure  was  desired  ; she,  therefore,  under  pretence  of  busi- 
ness, retired  and  took  Mary  along  with  her. 

Amanda  and  Lord  Mortimer  went  into  the  garden.  He 
thanked  her  for  not  losing  time  in  speaking  to  the  prioress 
about  her  servant,  and  said  that  he  hoped,  at  the  end  of  the 
week  at  farthest,  she  would  be  ready  to  begin  her  journey, 
Amanda  readily  promised  to  use  all  possible  dispatch.  Thej 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  36; 

passed  some  delightful  hours  in  rambling  about  the  garden, 
and  talking  over  their  felicity. 

The  prioress’s  expectation  was  answered  relative  to  a ser- 
vant. In  the  course  of  two  days  she  produced  one  in  every 
respect  agreeable  to  Amanda,  and  things  were  now  in  such 
forwardness  for  her  departure,  that  she  exjDected  it  would  take 
place  as  soon  as  Lord  Mortimer  had  mentioned.  His  time 
was  passed  almost  continually  at  St.  Catherine’s,  never  leaving 
it  except  at  dinner-time,  when  he  went  to  Castle  Carberry. 
His  residence  there  was  soon  known,  and  visitors  and  invita- 
tions without  number  came  to  the  castle,  but  he  found  means 
of  avoiding  them, 

Amanda,  laughing,  would  often  tell  him  he  retarded  the 
preparations  for  her  journey  by  being  always  with  her ; this, 
he  said,  was  only  a pretext  to  drive  him  away,  for  that  he  rather 
forwarded  them  by  letting  her  lose  no  time. 

Lord  Mortimer,  on  coming  to  Amanda  one  evening  as  usual, 
appeared  uncommonly  discomposed,  his  face  was  flushed,  and 
his  whole  manner  betrayed  agitation.  He  scarcely  noticed 
Amanda  ; but  seating  himself,  placed  his  arm  upon  a table, 
and  leaned  his  head  dejectedly  upon  it.  Amanda  was  inex- 
pressibly shocked — her  heart  panted  with  -apprehension  of  ill ; 
but  she  felt  too  timid  to  make  any  inquiry.  He  suddenly  knit 
his  brows,  and  muttered  between  his  teeth,  “ Curse  On  the 
wretch ! ” 

Amanda  could  no  longer  keep  silence.  What  wretch,”  she 
exclaimed,  ‘‘or  ^vhat  is  the  meaning  of  this  disorder?  ” “ First 
tell  me,  Amanda,”  said  he,  looking  very  steadfastly  at  her, 
“ have  you  seen  any  stranger  here  lately  ? ” “ Good  Heaven  ! ” 
replied  she,  “ what  can  you  mean  by  such  a question  ? But  I 
solemnly  assure  you  I have  not.”  “ Enough,”  said  he,  “ such 
an  assurance  restores  me  to  quiet ; but,  my  dear  Amanda,” 
coming  over  to  her,  and  taking  her  hands  in  his,  “ since  you 
have  perceived  my  agitation,  I must  account  to  you  for  it.  I 
have  just  seen  Belgrave  ; he  was  but  a few  yards  from  me  on 
the  Common  when  I saw  him  ; but  the  mean  despicable  wretch, 
loaded  as  he  is  wdth  conscious  guilty  durst  not  face  me.  He 
got  out  of  my  way  by  leaping  over  the  hedge  wdiich  divides  the 
Common  from  a lane  with  many  intricate  windings.  I endeav- 
ored, but  without  success,  to  discover  the  one  he  had  retreated 
through.”  “ I see,”  said  Amanda,  pale  and  trembling,  “he  is 
destined  to  make  me  wretched.  I had  hoped  indeed  that  Lord 
Mortimer  would  no  more  have  suffered  his  quiet  to  be  inter- 
rupted by  him  ; it  implies  such  a doubt,”  said  she,  weeping, 


368  the  children  of  the  abbey,  ' 

‘‘  as  shocks  my  soul ! If  suspicion  is  thus  continually  to  be  re- 
vived, we  had  better  separate  at  once,  for  misery  must  be  the 
consequence  of  a union  without  mutual  confidence.’’  Gracious 
Heaven  ! ” said  Lord  Mortimer,  how  unfortunate  I am  to  give 
you  pain.  You  mistake  entirely,  indeed,  my  dearest  Amanda, 
the  cause  of  my  uneasiness.  I swear  by  all  that  is  sacred,  no 
doubt,  no  suspicion  of  your  worth,  has  arisen  in  my  mind.  No 
man  can  think  more  highly  of  a woman  than  I do  of  you ; but 
I was  disturbed  lest  the  wretch  should  have  forced  himself  into 
your  presence,  and  lest  you,  through  apprehension  for  me,  con- 
cealed it  from  me.” 

This  explanation  calmed  the  perturbation  of  Amanda.  As 
an  atonement  for  the  uneasiness  he  had  given  her,  she  wanted 
Lord  Mortimer  to  promise  he  would  not  endeavor  to  discover 
Belgrave.  This  promise  he  avoided  giving,  and  Amanda  was 
afraid  of  pressing  it,  lest  the  spark  of  jealousy,  which  she  was 
convinced  existed  in  the  disposition  of  Lord  Mortimer,  should 
hr  blown  into  a flame.  That  Belgrave  studiously  avoid 

she  trusted,  and  she  resolved  that  if  the  things  that  she 
h^,d  deemed  it  necessary  to  order  from  the  neighboring  town 
Vvere  not  finished,  to  wait  no  longer  for  them,  as  she  longed 
now  more  than  ever  to  quit  a place  she  thought  dangerous  to 
Lord  Mortimer.  The  ensuing  morning,  instead  of  seeing  his 
lordship  at  breakfast,  a note  was  brought  to  her  couched  in 
these  words : 

TO  MISS  FITZALAN. 

I am  unavoidably  prevented  from  waiting  on  my  dear  Amanda  this  morn- 
ing, but  in  the  course  of  the  day  she  may  depend  on  either  seeing  or  hearing 
from  me  again.  She  can  have  no  excuse  now  on  my  account  about  not 
hastening  the  preparations  for  her  journey,  and  when  w’e  meet,  if  I find  that 
her  time  has  not  been  employed  for  this  purpose,  she  may  expect  a severe 
chiding  from  her  faithful  Mortimer. 

This  note  filled  Amanda  with  the  most  alarming  disquiet. 
It  was  evident  to  her  that  he  wa^)  gGrie  in  pursuit  of  Bel- 
grave. She  ran  into  the  hall  to  inquire  of  the  messenger 
about  his  master,  but  he  was  gor^-  She  then  hastened  ter 
the  prioress  and  communicated  her  appirc^ensions  to  her. 

The  prioress  endeavored  to  by  assuring  her 

she  m.^ght  be  convinced  that  Belgrave  Lad  taken  too  many 
precautions  to  be  discovered. 

Amanda’s  breakfast,  however.^  remained  untouched,  and 
her  things  unpacked,  and  she  continued  the  whole  morning 
the  picture  of  anxiety,  impatiently  expecting  the  promised 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


3^9 

visft  or  letter.  Neither  came,  and  she  resolved  to  send,  after 
dinner,  the  old  gardener  to  Castle  Carberry  to  inquire  about 
Lord  Mortimer.  While  she  was  speaking  to  him  for  that 
purpose,  the  maid  followed  her  into  the  garden,  and  told 
her  there  was  a messenger  in  the  parlor  from  Lord  Morti- 
mer. She  flew ’thither,  but  what  words  can  express  her  sur- 
prise when  the  supposed  messenger,  raising  a large  hat,  which 
shadowed  his  face,  and  removing  a handkerchief,  which  he 
had  hitherto  held  up  to  it,  discovered  to  her  view  the  features 
of  Lord  Cherbury  } She  could  only  exclaim,  ‘‘  Gracious  Heaven  ! 
has  anything  happened  to  Lord  Mortimer?  ere  she  sunk  into 
a chair  in  breathless  agitation. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

**  My  heavy  heart 

Tlie  prophetess  of  woe,  foretells  some  ill 
At  hand<” 

Lord  Cherbury  hastened  to  support  and  calm  her  agita- 
tion, by  assuring  her  Lord  Mortimer  was  in  perfect  safety.  Re- 
covering a little  by  this  assertion,  she  asked  him  “ how  he  was 
assured  of  this  ? He  answered,  because  he  had  seen  him, 
though  without  being  perceived  by  him,  about  an  hour  ago.’' 
Amanda,  restored  to  her  faculties  by  being  assured  he  was  un- 
injured, began  to  reflect  on  the  suddenness  of  Lord  Cherbury’s 
visit.  She  would  have  flattered  herself  he  came  to  introduce 
her  to  his  family  himself,  had  not  his  looks  almost  forbid  such 
an  idea.  They  were  gloomy  and  disordered  ; his  eyes  were 
fastened  on  her,  yet  he  appeared  unwilling  to  speak. 

Amanda  felt  herself  in  too  awkward  and  embarrassing  a 
situation  to  break  the  unpleasant  silence.  At  last  Lord  Cher- 
bury suddehly  exclaimed,  “ Lord  Mortimer  does  not,  nor  must 
not,  know  of  my  being  here.”  ‘‘  Must  not ! ” repeated  Amanda, 
in  inconceivable  astonishment. 

Gracio-us  Heaven  ! ” said  Lord  Cherbury,  starting  from 
the  chair  on  which  he  had  thrown  himself  opposite  her,  ‘‘  how 
shall  I begin,  how  shall  I tell  her ! Oh  ! Miss  Fitzalan,”  he 
continued,  approaching  her,  “ I have  much  to  say,  and  you  have 
much  to  hear  which  will  shock  you.  I believed  I could  better 
in  an  interview  have  informed  you  of  particulars,  but  I find  I 


370 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


was  mistaken.  I will  write  to  you.”  My  lord,”  cried  Aman- 
da, rising,  all  pale  and  trembling,  “ tell  me  now  ; to  leave  me 
in  suspense,  after  receiving  such  dreadful  hints,  would  be 
cruelty.  Oh  ! surely,  if  Lord  Mortimer  be  safe — if  Lady  Martha 
Dormer — if  Lady  Araminta  is  well — I can  have  nothing  so  very 
shocking  to  hear.”  Alas  ! ” replied  he,  mournfully  shaking 
his  head,  you  are  mistaken.  Be  satisfied,  however,  that  the 
friends  you  have  mentioned  are  all  well.  I have  said  I would 
write  to  you.  Can  you  meet  me  this  evening  amongst  the 
ruins  ? ” Amanda  gave  an  assenting  bow.  “ I shall  then,” 
pursued  he,  ‘Miave  a letter  ready  to  deliver  you.  In  the  mean 
time,  I must  inform  you  no  person  in  the  world  knows  of  my 
visit  here  but  yourself,  and  of  all  beings  Lord  Mortimer  is  the 
last  I should  wish  to  know  it.  Remember,  then.  Miss  Fitzalan,” 
taking  her  hand,  which  he  grasped  with  violence,  as  if  to  im- 
press his  words  upon  her  heart,  ‘‘  remember  that  upon  your 
secrecy  everything  most  estimable  in  life,  even  life  itself,  per- 
haps, depends.” 

With  these  dreadful  and  mysterious  words  he  departed, 
leaving  Amanda  a picture  of  horror  and  surprise.  It  was 
many  minutes  ere  she  moved  from  the  attitude  in  which  he  left 
her,  and  when  she  did,  it  was  only  to  walk  in  a disordered  man- 
ner about  the  room,  repeating  his  dreadful  words.  He  was 
come,  perhaps,  to  part  her  and  Lord  Mortimer,  and  yet,  after 
consenting  to  their  union,  surely  Lord  Cherbury  could  not  be 
guilty  of  such  treachery  and  deceit.  Yet,  if  this  was  not  the 
case,  why  conceal  his  coming  to  Ireland  from  Lord  Mortimer  r 
Why  let  it  be  known  only  to  her?  And  what  could  be  the 
secrets  of  dreadful  import  he  had  to  communicate  ? 

From  these  self-interrogations,  in  which  her  reason  was 
almost  bewildered,  the  entrance  of  the  prioress  drew  her. 

She  started  at  seeing  the  pale  and  distracted  looks  of 
Amanda,  and  asked,  ^‘if  she  had  heard  any  bad  tidings  of 
Lord  Mortimer  ? ” 

Amanda  sighed  heavily  at  this  question,  and  said,  ‘‘No.” 
The  secrecy  she  had  been  enjoined  to  she  durst  not  violate, 
by  mentioning  the  mysterious  visit  to  her  friend.  Unable,  how- 
ever, to  converse  on  any  other  subject,  she  resolved  to  retire  to 
her  chamber.  She  placed  her  illness  and  agitation  to  the  ac- 
count of  Lord  Mortimer,  and  said  a little  rest  v;as  absolutely 
necessary  for  her,  and  begged,  if  his  lordship  came  in  the 
course  of  the  evening,  he  might  be  told  she  was  too  ill  to  se© 
him. 

The  prioress  pressed  her  to  stay  for  tea.  She  refused,  antf' 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


371 

as  she  retired  from  the  room,  desired  nothing  might  be  said  of 
the  person  who  had  just  seen  her  to  Lord  Mortimer,  saying, 
with  a faint  smile,  “she  would  not  make  him  vain  by  letting 
him  knov/  of  her  anxiety  about  him.’’  She  retired  to  her  cham- 
ber, and  endeavored  to  control  her  perturbations,  that  she  might 
be  the  better  enabled  to  support  what  she  had  so  much  reason 
to  apprehend.  Neither  the  prioress  nor  the  nuns,  in  obedience 
to  her  injunctions,  intruded  upon  her,  and  at  the  appointed 
hour  she  softly  opened  the  chamber  door,  and,  every  place  being 
clear,  stole  softly  from  the  convent. 

• She  found  Lord  Cherbury  waiting  for  her  amidst  the  solitary 
ruins.  He  had  a letter  in  his  hand,  which  he  presented  to  her 
the  moment  she  appeared. 

“ In  this  letter.  Miss  Fitzalan,”  said  he,  “ I have  opened 
to  you  my  whole  heart.  I have  disburdened  it  of  secrets  which 
have  long  oppressed  it.  I have  intrusted  my  honor  to  your  care. 
From  what  I have  said,  that  its  contents  are  of  a sacred  nature, 
you  may  believe,  should  they  be  considered  in  any  other  light 
by  you,  the  consequence  may,  nay,  must  be  fatal.”  He  said 
this  with  a sternness  that  made  Amanda  shrink.  “ Meditate 
well  on  the  contents  of  that  letter,  Miss  Fitzalan,”  continued 
he,  with  a voice  of  deep  solemnity,  “ for  it  is  a letter  which  will 
fix  your  destiny  and  mine.  Even  should  the  request  contained 
in  it  be  refused,  let  me  be  the  first  acquainted  with  the  refusal. 
Then  indeed  I shall  urge  you  no  more  to  secrecy,  for  what  will 
follow,  in  consequence  of  such  a refusal,  must  divulge  all.” 
“ Oh ! tell  me,  tell  me,”  said  Amanda,  catching  hold  of  his  arm, 
“ tell  me  what  is  the  request  or  what  it  is  I am  to  fear.  Oh  ! 
tell  me  all  at  once,  and  rid  me  of  the  torturing  suspense  I en- 
dure.” “ I cannot,”  he  cried,  “ indeed,  I cannot.  To-morrow 
night  I shall  expect  your  answer  here  at  the  same  hour.” 

At  this  moment  Lord  Mortimer’s  voice  calling  upon  Amanda 
was  heard.  Lord  Cherbury  dropped  her  hand,  which  he  had 
taken,  and  instantly  retired  amongst  the  windings  of  the  pile, 
from  whence  Lord  Mortimer  soon  appeared,  giving  Amanda 
only  time  to  hide  the  fatal  letter. 

“ Good  Heavens  ! ” exclaimed  he,  “ what  could  have  brought 
you  hither,  and  who  was  the  person  who  just  departed  from 
you  ? ” It  was  well  for  Amanda  that  the  twilight  gave  but 
an  imperfect  view  of  her  face.  She  felt  her  color  come  and 
go  ; a cold  dew  overspread  her  forehead  ; she  leaned  against  a 
rude  fragment  of  the  building,  and  faintly  exclaimed,  “ the  per- 
son  ” “Yes,”  said  Lord  Mortimer,  “I  am  sure  I heard 

retreating  footsteps.”  “ Ycm  are  mistaken,”  repeated  Amanda# 


372 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


in  the  same  faint  accent.  ‘‘ Well/^  said  he,  though  you  may 
dispute  the  evidence  of  my  ears,  you  cannot  the  evidence  of  my 
eyes.  I see  you  here,  and  I am  astonished  at  it.’'  I came 
here  for  air,”  said  Amanda.  For  air ! ” repeated  Lord  Mor- 
timer; “ I own  I should  have  thought  the  garden  better  adapted 
for  such  a purpose ; but  why  come  hither  in  a clandestine 
manner  ? Why,  if  you  have  the  fears  you  would  persuade  me 
you  have,  expose  yourself  to  danger  from  the  wretch  who 
haunts  the  place,  by  coming  here  alone.  When  I went  to  the 
convent  I was  told  you  were  indisposed,  and  could  not  be  dis- 
turbed. I could  not  depart,  however,  without  making  an  effort 
to  see  you  ; but  you  can  easier  imagine  than  I describe  the 
consternation  I felt  when  you  could  not  be  found.  It  was 
wrong,  indeed,  Amanda,  it  was  wrong  to  come  here  alone,  and 
affect  concealment.”  Gracious  Heaven  ! ” said  Amanda,  rais- 
ing her  hands  and  eyes,  and  bursting  into  tears,  ‘‘  how  wretched 
am  I ! ” 

She  was  indeed  at  this  moment  superlatively  wretched. 
Her  heart  was  oppressed  by  the  dread  of  evil,  and  she  perceived 
suspicions  in  Lord  Mortimer  which  she  could  not  attempt  to 
remove,  lest  an  intimation  of  the  secret  she  was  so  awfully 
enjoined  to  keep  should  escape. 

“Ah  ! Amanda,”  said  Lord  Mortimer,  losing  in  a moment 
the  asperity  with  which  he  had  addressed  her  at  first,  “ ah  ! Aman- 
da, like  the  rest  of  your  sex,  you  know  too  well  the  power  of 
your  tears  not  to  use  them.  Forget,  or  at  least  forgive,  all  I 
have  said.  I was  disappointed  in  not  seeing  you  the  moment  I 
expected,  and  that  put  me  out  of  temper.  I know  I am  too 
impetuous,  but  you  will  in  time  subdue  every  unruly  passion. 
I put  myself  into  your  hands,  and  you  shall  make  me  what  you 
please.” 

He  now  pressed  her  to  his  bosom,  and  finding  her  tremble 
universally,  again  implored  her  forgiveness,  as  he  imputed  the, 
agitation  she  betrayed  entirely  to  the  uneasiness  he  had  given 
her.  She  assured  him,  with  a faltering  voice,  he  had  not 
offended  her.  Her  spirits  were  affected,  she  said,  by  all  she 
had  suffered  during  the  day.  Lord  Mortimer  placing,  as  she 
wished,  those  sufferings  to  his  own  account,  declared  her  anxiety 
at  once  pained  and  pleased  him  ; adding,  he  would  truly  confess 
what  detained  him  from  her  during  the  day  as  soon  as  they 
returned  to  the  convent. 

Their  return  to  it  relieved  the  sisterhood,  who  had  also 
been  seeking  Amanda,  from  many  apprehensions.  The  prioress 
and  Sister  Mary  followed  them  into  the  parlor,  where  Lord 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


373 


Mortimei  Legged  they  would  have  compassion  on  him,  and 
give  him  something  for  his  supper,  as  he  had  scarcely  eaten 
anything  the  whole  day.”  Sister  Mary  instantly  replied,  ‘‘  he 
should  be  gratified,  as  Amanda  was  in  the  same  predicament, 
and  she  hoped  he  would  be  now  able  to  prevail  on  her  to  eat.” 
The  cloth  was  accordingly  laid,  and  a few  trifles  placed  upon 
it.  Sister  Mary  would  gladly  have  stayed,  but  the  prioress 
had  understanding  enough  to  think  the  supper  would  be  more 
palatable  if  they  were  absent,  and  accordingly  retired. 

Lord  Mortimer  now,  with  the  most  soothing  tenderness,  tried 
to  cheer  his  fair  companion,  and  make  her  take  some  refresh- 
ment ; but  his  eiforts  for  either  of  those  purposes  were  unsuc- 
cessful, and  she  besought  him  not  to  think  her  obstinate,  if  she 
could  not  in  a moment  recover  her  spirits.  To  divert  his  atten- 
tion a little  from  himself,  she  asked  him  to  perform  his  promise, 
by  relating  what  had  kept  him  the  whole  day  from  St.  Cath- 
erine’s. 

He  now  acknowledged  “ he  had  been  in  search  of  Belgrave  ; 
but  the  precautions  he  had  taken  to  conceal  himself  baffled  all 
inquiries,  which  convinces  me,”  continued  Lord  Mortimer,  ‘Tf 
I wanted  conviction  about  such  a matter,  that  he  has  not  yet 
dropped  his  villanous  designs  upon  you  ; but  the  wretch  cannot 
always  escape  the  vengeance  he  merks.”  “ May  he  never,” 
cried  Amanda,  fervently  yet  involuntarily,  ‘‘  meet  it  from  your 
hands.”  ‘‘  We  will  drop  that  pajt  of  the  subject,”  said  Lord 
Mortimer,  ‘‘if  you  please.  You  must  know,”  continued  he, 
after  scouring  the  whole  neighborhood,  I fell  in,  about  four 
miles  hence,  with  a gentleman  who  had  visited  at  the  Marquis 
of  Roslin’s  last  summer.  He  immediately  asked  me  to  accom- 
pany him  home  to  dinner.  From  his  residence  in  the  country 
1 thought  it  probable  he  might  be  able  to  give  some  account  of 
Belgrave,  and  therefore  accepted  the  invitation  ; but  my  inqui- 
ries were  as  fruitless  here  as  elsewhere.  When  I found  it  so,  I 
was  on  thorns  to  depart,  particularly  as  all  the  gentlemen  were 
set  in  for  drinking,  and  feared  I might  be  thrown  into  an  im- 
proper situation  to  visit  my  Amanda.  I was  on  the  watch, 
however,  and,  to  use  their  sporting  term,  literally  stole  away.” 
“ Thank  Heaven  ! ” said  Amanda,  “your  inquiries  proved  fruit- 
less. Oh  ! never,  never  repeat  them.  Think  no  more  about  a 
wretch  so  despicable.”  “Well,”  cried  Lord  Mortimer,  “why 
don’t  you  hurry  me  from  the  neighborhood  ? Fix  the  day,  the 
moment  for  our  departure.  I have  been  here  already  five  days. 
Lady  Martha’s  patience  is,  I dare  say,  quite  exhausted  by  this 
time,  and  should  we  delay  much  longer,  I suppose,  she  will 


374 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


think  we  have  both  become  converts  to  the  holy  rites  of  th\^ 
convent,  and  that  I,  instead  of  taking  the  vows  which  should 
make  me  a joyful  bridegroom,  am  about  taking  those  which 
shall  doom  me  to  celibacy.  Seriously,  what  but  want  of  incli- 
nation can  longer  detain  you  ? ’’  “ Ah  ! ” said  Amanda,  ‘‘you 

know  too  well  that  my  departure  cannot  be  retarded  by  want  of 
inclination.’’  “ Then  why  not  decide  immediately  upon  the 
day  ? ” Amanda  was  silent ; her  situation  was  agonizing  ; how 
could  she  fix  upon  a day,  uncertain  whether  she  did  not  possess 
a letter  which  would  prevent  her  ever  taking  the  projected 
journey ! 

“ Well,”  said  Lord  Mortimer,  after  allowing  her  some  time 
to  speak,  “ I see  I must  fix  the  day  myself  ; this  is  Tuesday 
— let  it  be  Thursday.”  “ Let  us  drop  the  subject  this  night, 
my  lord,”  said  Amanda  ; “ I am  really  ill,  and  only  wait  for 
your  departure  to  retire  to  rest.”  “ Lord  Mortimer  obqved 
her,  but  with  reluctance,  and  soon  after  retired. 


CHAPTER  XLL 

“ As  one  condemned  to  leap  a precipice, 

Who  sees  before  his  eyes  the  depths  below, 

Stops  short,  and  looks  about  for  some  kind  shrub 
To  break  his  dreadful  fall.” — Dryden. 

Amanda  went  to  her  chamber  the  moment  Lord  Mortimer 
departed : the  nuns  were  already  retired  to  rest,  so  that  the 
stillness  which  reigned  through  the  house  added  to  the  awful- 
ness of  her  feelings,  as  she  sat  down  to  peruse  a letter  which 
she  had  been  previously  informed  would  fix  her  fate. 

TO  MISS  FITZALAN. 

To  destroy  a prospect  of  felicity,  at  the  very  moment  its  enveloping 
glooms  are  dispersed,  is  indeed  the  source  of  pangs  most  dreadful ; yet 
such  are  the  horrors  of  my  destiny,  that  nothing  but  intervening  between 
you,  Mortimer  and  happiness,  can  save  me  fi  om  perdition.  Appalled  at 
this  dreadful  assertion,  the  letter  drops  from  your  trembling  hands  ; but 
oh  ! dear  Miss  Fitzalan,  cast  it  not  utterly  aside  till  you  peruse  the  rest  of 
the  contents,  and  fix  the  destiny  of  the  most  wretched  of  mankind,  wretched 
m thinking  he  shall  interrupt  not  only  your  peace,  but  the  peace  of  a 
son  so  noble,  so  gracious,  so  idolized  as  Mortimer  is  by  him  ; but  I will 
not  longer  torture  your  feelings  by  keeping  you  in  suspense  ; the  preface  I 
have  already  given  is  sufficient,  and  I will  be  explicit : gambling,  that  bane 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


375 


Dt  fame  and  fortune,  has  been  my  ruin  ; but  whilst  I indulged,  so  well  did 
I conceal  my  propensity  for  it,  that  even  those  I called  my  friends  were 
ignorant  of  it.  With  shame  I confess  I was  ever  foremost  to  rail  against 
this  vice,  which  was  continually  drawing  sums  in  secret  from  me,  that  would 
have  given  comfort  and  affluence  to  many  a child  in  want.  For  some  time 
my  good  and  bad  fortune  were  so  equal,  that  my  income  suffered  no  consider- 
able diminution.  About  five  years  ago  a Mr.  Freelove,  a particular  friend 
of  mine,  died,  and  left  to  my  care  his  only  son,  whom,  I dare  say,  you  may 
recollect  having  seen  at  my  house  last  winter.  This  young  man’s  property 
N3.S  consigned  to  my  care,  to  manage  as  much  for  his  advantage  as  I could ; 
it  consisted  of  a large  estate  and  fifty  thousand  pounds.  At  the  period  Free- 
love became  my  ward,  1 had  had  a constant  run  of  ill-luck  for  many  months. 
The  ardor  of  gaming  (unlike  every  other  passion)  is  rather  increased  than 
diminished  by  disappointment.  Without  being  warned,  therefore,,  by  ill- 
success,  I still  went  on,  till  all  I could  touch  of  my  own  property  was  gone. 
Did  I then  retire,  ashamed  of  my  folly?  No.  I could  not  bear  to  do  so, 
without  another  effort  to  recover  my  losses,  and  in  that  effort  risked  some- 
thing more  precious  than  I had  ever  yet  done — namely,  my  honor,  by  using 
the  money  w'hich  lay  in  my  hands  belonging  to  Freelove  ; the  long  period 
which  was  to  elapse  ere  he  came  of  age,  emboldened  me  to  this.  Ere  that 
period  I trusted  I should  have  retrieved  my  losses,  and  be  enabled  not  only 
to  discharge  the  principal,  but  whatever  interest  it  would  have  brought,  if 
applied  to  another  purpose.  I followed  the  bent  of  my  evil  genius,  sum  after 
sum  taken  up,  and  all  alike  buried  in  the  accursed  vortex  which  had  already 
swallowed  so  much  from  me  ! But  when  I found  all  was  gone,  oh,  Miss 
Fitzalan ! I still  tremble  at  the  distraction  of  that  moment. 

All,  as  I have  said  before,  that  I could  touch  of  my  property  was  gone  ; 
the  remainder  was  so  settled  I had  no  power  over  it,  except  joined  by  my 
son.  Great  as  was  the  injury  that  he  would  sustain  by  mortgaging  it,  I was 
confident  he  never  would  hesitate  doing  so  if  acquainted  with  my  distress;  but 
to  let  him  know  it  was  worse  than  a death  of  torture  could  be  to  me  ; his 
early  excellence,  the  nobleness  of  his  principles,  mingled  in  the  love  I felt 
for  him  a degree  of  awe  ; to  confess  myself  a villain  to  such  a character,  to 
acknowledge  my  life  had  been  a scene  of  deceit ; to  be  abashed,  confounded 
in  the  presence  of  my  son — to  meet  his  piercing  eye — to  see  the  blush  of 
shame  mantle  his  cheeks  for  his  father’s  crimes — Ob,  horrible  ! — most  hor- 
rible ! I raved  at  the  idea,  and  resolved,  if  driven  by  necessity  to  tell  him 
of  my  baseness,  not  to  survive  the  confession.  At  this  critical  juncture  the 
Marquis  of  Roslin  came  from  Scotland  to  reside  in  London.  An  intimacy 
which  had  been  dormant  for  years  between  our  families  was  then  revived, 
and  I soon  found  that  an  alliance  between  them  would  be  pleasing.  The 
prospect  of  it  raised  me  from  the  very  depth  of  despair.  But  my  transports 
were  of  short  continuance,  for  Mortimer  not  only  showed  but  expressed  the 
strongest  repugnance  to  such  a connection.  Time  and  daily  experience,  I 
trusted,  would  so  forcibly  convince  him  of  the  advantages  of  it,  as  at  last  to 
conquer  this  repugnance.  Nor  did  the  hope  of  an  alliance  taking  place 
entirely  forsake  my  heart,  till  informed  that  his  was  already  bestowed  upon 
another  object.  My  feelings  at  this  information  I shall  not  attempt  to 
describe.  All  hope  of  saving  myself  from  dishonor  was  now  cut  off ; for 
though  dutiful  and  attentive  to  me  in  the  highest  degree,  I could  not  flatter 
myself  that  Mortimer  would  blindly  sacrifice  his  reason  and  inclination  to 
my  will.  The  most  fatal  intentions  again  took  possession  of  my  mind  ; but 
the  uncertainties  he  suffered  on  your  account  kept  me  in  horrible  suspense, 
as  to  their  execution.  After  some  months  of  torture,  I began  again  t4 
revive,  by  learning  that  you  and  Mortimer  were  inevitably  separated.  An^ 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


2,1^ 

such  is  the  selfish  nature  of  vice ; so  abandoned  is  it  to  all  feelings  of 
humanity,  that  I rather  rejoiced  at,  than  lamented  the  supposed  disgrace  of 
the  daughter  of  my  friend.  But  the  persevering  constancy  of  Mortimer — 
rather  let  me  say  the  immediate  interposition  of  Providence — soon  gave  her 
reason  to  triumph  over  the  arts  of  her  enemies,  and  I was  again  reduced  to 
despair.  Mortimer,  I dare  say,  from  motives  of  delicacy,  has  concealed 
from  you  the  opposition  I gave  to  his  wishes  after  your  innocence  was 
cleared,  and  the  intentions  of  Lady  Martha  Dormer  relative  to  you  were  made 
known.  At  last  I found  I musfeither  seem  to  acquiesce  in  these  wishes  and 
intentions,  or  divulge  my  real  motive  for  opposing  them ; or  else  quarrel  with 
my  son  and  sister,  and  appear  in  their  eyes  the  most  selfish  of  human  beings 
I,  therefore,  to  appearance  acquiesced,  but  resolved  in  reality  to  throw  my- 
self upon  your  mercy,  believing  that  a character  so  tender,  so  perfect,  so 
heroic-like  as  yours  has  been,  through  every  scene  of  distress,  would  have 
compassion  on  a fallen  fellow-creature.  Was  my  situation  otherwise  than 
it  now  is — were  you  even  portionless — I should  rejoice  at  having  you  united 
to  my  family,  from  your  own  intrinsic  merit.  Situated  as  I now  am,  the 
fortune  Lady  Martha  Dormer  proposes  giving  you  can  be  of  no  consequence 
to  me.  The  projected  match  between  you  and  Mortimer  is  yet  a secret  from 
the  public — of  course  it  has  not  lessened  his  interest  with  the  Roslin  family. 
I have  already  been  so  fortunate  as  to  adjust  the  unlucky  difference  which 
took  place  between  them,  and  remove  any  resentment  they  entertained 
against  him ; and  I am  confident  the  first  overture  he  should  make  for  a 
union  with  Lady  Euphrasia  would  be  successful.  The  fortune  wEich  would 
immediately  be  received  with  her  is  sixty  thousand  pounds,  and  five  thou- 
sand a-year.  The  first  would  -be  given  up  to  me  in  place  of  the  settlement 
I should  make  on  Lord  Mortimer  ; so  that  you  see,  my  dear  Miss  Fitzalan, 
his  marriage  with  Lady  Euphrasia  would  at  once  extricate  me  from  all  my 
difficulties.  Freelove  in  a few  months  wdli  be  of  age,  and  the  smallest  delay 
in  settling  with  him,  after  he  attains  that  period,  must  brand  me  with  dis- 
honor. I stand  upon  the  verge  of  a dreadful  abyss,  and  it  is  in  your  power 
only  to  preserve  me  from  plunging  into  it — ^^you  who,  like  an  angel  of  mercy, 
may  bid  me  live,  and  save  me  from  destruction.  Yet  think  not  in  resigning 
Lord  Mortimer,  if,indeed,  such  a resignation  should  take  place,  you  sacrifice 
your  own  interest.  No  ; it  shallbe  my  grateful  care  to  secure  to  you  indepen- 
dence ) and  I am  confident,  among  the  many  men  you  must  meet,  sensible 
of  your  worth,  and  enraptured  with  your  charms,  you  may  yet  select  one  as 
calculated  to  render  you  happy  as  Mortimer ; while  he,  disappointed  of  the 
object  of  his  affections,  will,  I have  no  doubt,  without  longer  hesitation, 
accept  the  one  I shall  again  propose  to  him.  But  should  you  determine  on 
giving  him  up,  you  ask  how,  and  by  what  means,  you  can  break  with  him 
after  what  has  passed,  without  revealing  your  real  motive  for  doing  so  to 
him.  That  is  indeed  a difficulty  ; but  after  going  so  far,  I must  not  hesitate 
in  telling  you  how  it  can  be  removed.  You  must  retire  secretly  from  his 
knowledge,  and  leave  no  clue  behind  by  w hich  3^ou  can  be  traced.  If  you 
comply  with  the  first  of  my  requests,  but  stop  short  here,  you  will  defeat  all 
that  your  mercy,  your  pity,  your  compassion,  would  do  to  save  me,  since 
the  consequence  of  any  liesitation  must  be  a full  explanation,  and  I have 
already  said  it,  and  now  repeat  it  in  the  most  solemn  manner,  that  I will 
not  survive  the  divulgement  of  my  secret — for  never,  no,  never  wdll  I live 
humbled  in  the  eyes  of  my  son.  If,  then,  you  comply,  comply  not  in  part. 
Pardon  me,  dear  Miss  Fitzalan,  if  you  think  there  is  anything  arbitrary  in 
my  style.  I would  have  softened,  if  I could,  all  I had  to  say,  but  the  time, 
the  danger,  the  necessity,  urged  me  to  be  explicit.  I have  now  to  you,  as 
to  a superior  Being,  opened  my  whole  heart.  It  rests  with  you  whether  I 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


377 


shall  live  to  atone  for  my  follies,  or  by  one  desperate  action  terminate  them. 
Should  you  show  me  mercy,  unworthy  as  I am  of  it — should  you  in  com- 
passion to  poor  Mortimer,  comply  with  a request  which  can  only  save  him 
from  the  pangs  he  would  feel  at  a*  father’s  quitting  life  unbidden,  my  grati- 
tude, my  admiration,  my  protection  whilst  I live,  will  be  yours,  and  the  first 
act  of  my  restored  life  will  be  to  secure  you  a competence.  I shall  wait 
with  trembling  anxiety  for  your  appearance  to-morrov/  night.  Till  then, 
believe  me'  Your  sincere,  though  most  unhappy  friend, 

Cherbury. 

The  fatal  letter  fell  from  Amanda.  A mist  overspread  her 
eyes,  and  she  sunk  senseless  on  her  chair ; but  the  privation  of 
her  misery  was  of  short  duration,  and  she  recovered  as  if  from 
a dreadful  dream.  She  felt  cold,  trembling,  and  terrified.  She 
looked  round  the  room  with  an  eye  of  apprehension  and  dis- 
may, bewildered  as  to  the  cause  of  her  wretchedness  and  terror, 
till  the  letter  at  her  feet  again  struck  her  sight. 

“Was  there  no  way,’’  she  asked  herself,  as  she  again  exam- 
ined the  contents,  “ was  there  no  way  by  which  the  dreadful 
sacrifice  it  doomed  her  to  could  he  avoided  ? ” Lady  Martha 
and  Lord  Mortimer  would  unite  their  efforts  to  save  the  honor 
of  their  wretched  relative  ; they  would  soothe  his  feelings  ; they 

would  compassionate  his  failings  ; they  would ; but  she 

started  in  the  midst  of  these  ideas — started  as  from  ideas 
fraught  with  guilt  and  horror,  as  those  fatal  words  rushed  upon 
her  mind — “ I will  not  survive  the  divulgement  of  my  secret  ; ” 
and  she  found  that  to  save  the  father  she  must  resign  the  son. 
How  unworthy  of  such  a sacrifice  ! engaged  as  she  was  to  Lord 
Mortimer,  she  began  to  doubt  whether  she  had  a right  to  make 
it.  What  a doubt  1 She  shuddered  for  having  conceived  it, 
and  reproached  herself  for  yielding  a moment  to  the  suggestions 
of  tenderness  which  had  given  rise  to  it.  She  resolved  without 
a farther  struggle  to  submit  to  reason  and  to  virtue,  convinced 
that,  if  accessory  to  Lord  Cherbury’s  death,  nothing  could  as- 
suage her  wretchedness,  and  that  the  unhappiness  Lord  Morti- 
mer would  suffer  at  losing  her  would  be  trifling  compared  to 
that  he  would  feel  if  he  lost  his  father  by  an  act  of  suicide. 

“ In  my  fate,”  exclaimed  she,  in  the  low  and  broken  accent 
of  despair,  “ there  is  no  alternative.  I submit  to  it  without  a 
farther  struggle ; I dare  not  call  upon  one  being  to  advise  me. 
I resign  him,  therefore,”  she  continued,  as  if  Lord  Cherbury 
was  really  present  to  hear  her  resignation  ; “ I resign  Lord 
Mortimer,  but,  oh,  my  God  ! ” raising  her  hands  with  agony  to 
heaven,  “ give  me  fortitude  to  bear  the  horrors  of  my  situation  ! 
Oh,  Mortimer  ! dear,  invaluable  Mortimer  ! the  hand  of  fate  is 
against  our  union,  and  we  must  part,  never,  never  more  to  meet ! 


3^78  the  CHILD REH  of  THE  ABBEY.  - 

From  the  imputation  of  ingratitude  and  guilt  I shall  not  be 
allowed  to  vindicate  myself.  No,  I am  completely  the  victim 
of  Lord  Cherbury  — the  cruel,  perfidous  Cherbury,  whose 
treachery,  whose  seeming  acquiescence  in  the  wishes  of  his 
son,  has  given  me  joy  but  to  render  my  misery  more  acute  ! ’’ 

That  Lord  Mortimer  would  impute  withdrawing  herself  from 
him  to  an  attachment  for  Belgrave  she  was  convinced,  and  that 
her  fame  as  well  as  peace  should  be  sacrificed  to  Lord  Cher- 
bury, caused  such  a whirl  of  contending  passions  in  her  mind, 
that  reason  and  reflection  for  a few  minutes  yielded  to  their 
violence,  and  she  resolved  to  vindicate  herself  to  Lord  Morti- 
mer. This  resolution,  however,  was  of  short  continuance.  As 
her  subsiding  passions  again  gave  her  power  to  reflect,  she  was 
convinced  that  by  trying  to  clear  herself  of  an  imaginary  crime, 
she  should  commit  a real  one — since  to  save  her  own  character 
Lord  Cherbury’s  must  be  stigmatized  ; and  the  consequence 
of  such  an  act  he  had  already  declared — so  that  not  only  by 
the  world,  but  by  her  own  conscience,  she  should  forever  be 
accused  of  accelerating  his  death. 

It  must,  it  must  be  made  ! ’’  she  wildly  cried  ; the  sacri- 
fice must  be  made,  and  Mortimer  is  lost  to  me  forever.’’  She 
flung  herself  on  the  bed,  and  passed  the  hours  till  morning  in 
agonies  too  great  for  description.  From  a kind  of  stupefaction 
rather  than  sleep,  into  which  she  had  gradually  sunk  towards 
morning,  she  w^as  roused  by  a gentle  tap  at  her  chamber  door, 
and  the  voice  of  Sister  Mary  informing  her  that  Lord  Mortimer 
was  below,  and  impatient  for  his  breakfast. 

Amanda  started  from  the  bed,  and  bid  her  tell  his  lordship 
she  would  attend  him  immediately.  She  then  adjusted  her 
dress,  tried  to  calm  her  spirits,  and,  with  uplifted  hands  and 
eyes,  besought  Heaven  to  support  her  through  the  trials  of 
the  day. 

Weak  and  trembling  she  descended  to  the  parlor.  The 
moment  she  entered  it.  Lord  Mortimer,  shocked  and  surprised 
by  her  altered  looks,  exclaimed,  Gracious  Heaven  ! what  is 
the  matter  ? ” Then  feeling  the  feverish  heat  of  her  hands, 
continued,  ‘‘  Why,  why,  Amanda,  had  you  the  cruelty  to  conceal 
your  illness  ? Proper  assistance  might  have  prevented  its  in- 
creasing to  such  a degree.”  With  unutterable  tenderness  he 
folded  his  arms  about  her,  and,  while  her  drooping  head  sunk 
on  his  bosom,  declared  he  would  immediately  send  for  the  phy- 
sician who  had  before  attended  her. 

‘‘  Do  not,”  said  Amanda,  while  tears  trickled  down  her 
cheeks,  ‘‘do  not,”  continued  she,  in  a broken  voice,  “for  he 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


379 

could  do  me  no  good.”  '‘No  good  ! ” repeated  Lord  Mortimer, 
in  a terrified  accent.  “ I mean,”  cried  she,  “ he  would  find  it 
unnecessary  to  prescribe  anything  for  me,  as  my  illness  only 
proceeds  from  the  agitation  I suffered  yesterday.  It  made  me 
pass  an  indifferent  night,  but  quietness  to-day  will  recover  me.’^ 

Lord  Mortimer  was  with  difficulty  persuaded  to  give  up  his 
intention  ; nor  would  he  relinquish  it  till  she  had  promised,  if 
not  better  before  the  evening,  to  inform  him,  and  let  the  physi- 
cian be  sent  for. 

They  now  sat  down  to  breakfast,  at  which  Amanda  v/as  un- 
able either  to  preside  or  eat.  When  over,  she  told  Lord  Morti- 
mer she  must  retire  to  her  chamber,  as  rest  was  essential  for  her ; 
but  between  nine  and  ten  in  the  evening  she  would  be  happy  to 
see  him.  He  tried  to  persuade  her  that  she  might  rest  as  well 
upon  the  sofa  in  the  parlor  as  in  her  chamber,  and  that  he 
might  then  be  allowed  to  sit  with  her ; but  she  could  not  be 
persuaded  to  this,  she  said,  and  begged  he  would  excuse  see- 
ing her  till  the  time  she  had  already  mentioned. 

He  at  last  retired  with  great  reluctance,  but  not  till  she  had 
several  times  desired  him  to  do  so. 

Amanda  now  repaired  to  her  chamber,  but  not  to  indulge 
in  the  supineness  of  grief,  though  her  heart  felt  bursting,  but  to 
settle  upon  some  plan  for  her  future  conduct.  In  the  first 
place,  she  immediately  meant  to  write  to  Lord  Cherbury,  as 
the  best  method  she  could  take  of  acquainting  him  with  hei 
compliance,  and  preventing  any  conversation  between  them, 
which  would  now  have  been  insupportable  to  her. 

In  the  next  place,  she  designed  acquainting  the  prioress 
with  the  sudden  alteration  in  her  affairs,  only  concealing  the 
occasion  of  that  alteration,  and,  as  but  one  day  intervened  be- 
tween the  present  and  the  one  fixed  for  her  journey,  meant  to 
beseech  her  to  think  of  some  place  to  which  she  might  retire 
from  Lord  Mortimer. 

Yet  such  was  the  opinion  she  knew  the  prioress  entertained 
of  Lord  Mortimer,  that  she  almost  dreaded  she  would  impute 
her  resignation  of  him  to  some  criminal  motive,  and  abandon 
her  entirely.  If  this  should  be  the  case  (and  scarcely  could 
she  be  surprised  if  it  was),  she  resolved  Vv^ithout  delay  to  go 
privately  to  the  neighboring  town,  and  from  thence  proceed 
immediately  to  Dublin.  How  she  should  act  there,  or  what 
would  become  of  her,  never  entered  her  thoughts  ; they  were 
wholly  engrossed  about  the  manner  in  which  she  should  leave 
St.  Catherine’s. 

But  she  hoped,  much  as  appearances  were  against  her.  she 


380  THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

should  not  be  deserted  by  the  prioress.  Providence,  she 
trusted,  would  be  so  compassionate  to  her  misery,  as  to  preserve 
her  this  one  friend,  who  could  not  only  assist  but  advise  her. 

As  soon  as  she  had  settled  the  line  of  conduct  she  should 
pursue,  she  sat  down  to  pen  her  renunc:iation  of  Lord  Morti- 
mer, which  she  did  in  the  following  words  : — 

TO  THE  EARL  OF  CHERBURY. 

My  Lord, — To  your  wishes  I resign  my  happiness;  my  happiness,  I re- 
peat, for  it  is  due  to  Lord  Mortimer  .to  declare  that  a union  with  such  a 
character  as  his  must  have  produced  the  highest  felicity.  It  is  also  due  to 
my  own  to  declare,  that  it  was  neither  his  rank  nor  his  fortune,  but  his  vir- 
tues, which  influenced  my  inclination  in  his  favor.\ 

Happy  had  it  been  for  us  all,  my  lord,  but  particularly  for  me,  had  you 
continued  steady  in  opposing  the  wishes  of  your  son.  My  reverence  for 
paternal  authority  is  too  great  ever  to  have  allowed  me  to  act  in  opposition 
to  it.  I should  not  then,  by  your  seeming  acquiescence  to  them,  have  been 
tempted  to  think  my  trials  all  over. 

But  I will  not  do  away  any  little  merit  your  lordship  may  perhaps  ascribe 
to  my  immediate  compliance  with  your  request,  by  dwelling  upon  the  suffer- 
ings it  entails  on  me.  May  the  renunciation  of  my  hopes  be  the  means  of 
realizing  your  lordship’s,  and  may  superior  fortune  bring  superior  happiness 
to  Lord  Mortimer ! 

I thank  your  lordship  for  your  intentions  relative  to  me  ; but  whilst  I do 
so,  must  assure  you,  both  now  and  forever,  I shall  decline  having  them  ex- 
ecuted for  me. 

I shall  not  disguise  the  truth.  It  would  not  be  in  your  lordship’s  power 
to  recompense  the  sacrifice  I have  made  you  ; and,  besides,  pecuniary  obli- 
gations can  never  sit  easy  upon  a feeling  mind,  except  they  are  conferred 
by  those  we  know  value  us,  and  w’hom  we  value  ourselves.  I have  the 
honor  to  be,  your  lordship»s  obedient  servant, 

Amanda  Fitzalan. 

The  tears  she  had  with  difficulty  restrained  while  writing, 
now  burst  forth.  She  rose  and  walked  to  the  window,  to  try  if 
the  air  would  remove  the  faintness  which  oppressed  her.  From 
it  she  perceived  Lord  Mortimer  and  the  prioress  in  deep  con- 
versation, at  a little  distance  from  the  convent.  She  conjec- 
tured she  was  their  subject ; for,  as  Lord  Mortimer  retired,  the 
prioress,  whom  she  had  not  seen  that  day  before,  came  into 
her  chamber.  After  the  usual  salutations — Lord  Mortimer 
has  been  telling  me  you  were  ill,’’  said  she.  “ I trusted  a 
lover’s  fears  had  magnified  the  danger;  but  truly,  my  dear 
child,  I am  sorry  to  say  that  this  is  not  the  case.  Tell  me,  my 
dear, what  is  the  matter?  Surely  now,  more  than  ever,  you 
should  be  careful  of  your  health.”  Oh,  no  ! ” said  Amanda, 
with  a convulsive  sob.  Oh,  no  ” wringing  her  hands,  “you 
are  sadly  mistaken.”  The  prioress  grew  alarmed,  her  limbs 
began  to  tremble,  she  was  unable  to  stand,  and,  dropping  on 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  381 

the  nearest  chair,  besought  Amanda,  in  a voice  expressive  of 
her  feelings,  ‘‘  to  explain  the  reason  of  her  distress.’’ 

Amanda  knelt  before  her,  she  took  her  hands,  she  pressed 
them  to  her  burning  forehead  and  lips,  and  bedewed  them  with 
her  tears,  while  she  exclaimed,  “ she  was  wretched.” 
“ Wretched  ! ” repeated  the  prioress.  “ For  Heaven’s  sake  be 
explicit — keep  me  no  longer  in  suspense — you  sicken  my  very 
heart  by  your  agitation — it  foretells  something  dreadful ! ” 

“ It  does  indeed,”  said  Amanda.  It  foretells  that  Lord 
Mortimer  and  I shall  never  be  united  ! ” 

The  prioress  started,  and  surveyed  Amanda  with  a look 
which  aiiemed  to  say,  she  believed  she  had  lost  her  senses ; ” 
then,  with  assumed  composure,  begged  “ she  would  defer  any 
farther  explanation  of  her  distress  till  her  spirits  were  in  a 
calmer  state.”  I will  not  rise,”  cried  Amanda,  taking  the 
prioress’s  hand,  which,  in  her  surprise,  she  had  involuntarily 
withdrawn.  I will  not  rise  till  you  say  that,  notwithstanding 
the  mysterious  situation  in  which  I am  involved,  you  will  con- 
tinue to  be  my  friend.  Oh  ! such  an  assurance  would  assuage 
the  sorrows  of  my  heart.” 

The  prioress  now  perceived  that  it  was  grief  alone  which 
disordered  Amanda ; but  how  she  had  met  with  any  cause  for 
grief,  or  what  could  occasion  it,  were  matters  of  astonishment 
to  her.  “ Surely  my  dear  child,”  cried  she,  ‘‘  should  know  me 
too  well  to  desire  such  an  assurance  ; but,  however  mysterious 
her  situation  may  appear  to  others,  she  will  not,  I trust  and  be- 
lieve, let  it  appear  so  to  me.  I wait  with  impatience  for  an  ex- 
planation.” “ It  is  one  of  my  greatest  sorrows,”  exclaimed 
Amanda,  that  I cannot  give  such  an  explanation.  No,  no,” 
she  continued  in  an  agony,  ‘‘  a death-bed  confession  would  not 
authorize  my  telling  you  the  occasion  of  Lord  Mortimer’s 
separation  and  mine.”  The  prioress  now  insisted  on  her  taking 
a chair,  and  then  begged,  as  far  as  she  could,  without  farther 
delay,  she  would  let  her  into  her  situation. 

Amanda  immediately  complied.  An  unexpected  obstacle 
to  her  union  with  Lord  Mortimer,”  she  said,  “had  arisen,  a:, 
obstacle  which,  while  compelled  to  submit  to  it,  she  was  bound 
most  solemnly  to  conceal.  It  was  expedient,  therefore,  she  should 
retire  from  Lord  Mortimer,  without  giving  him  the  smallest  inti- 
mation of  such  an  intention,  lest,  if  he  suspected  it,  he  should  in- 
quire too  minutely,  and  by  so  doing,  plunge  not  only  her  but  him- 
self into  irremediable  distress.  To  avoid  this,  it  was  necessary 
all  but  the  prioress  should  be  ignorant  of  her  scheme  : and  by 
her  means  she  hoped  she  should  be  put  in  a way  of  finding  such 


3-2 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


a place  of  secrecy  and  security  as  she  should  required.  She 
besought  the  prioress,  with  streaming  eyes,  not  to  impute  her 
resignation  of  Lord  Mortimer  to  any  unworthy  motive  ; to  that 
Heaven,  which  could  alone  console  her  for  his  loss,  she  appealed 
for  her  innocence.  She  besought  her  to  believe  her  sincere  \ 
to  pity,  but  not  condemn  her  ; to  continue  her  friend  now,  when 
her  friendship  was  most  needful  in  this  her  deep  distress,  and 
she  assured  her,  if  it  was  withdrawn,  she  believed  she  could  no 
longer  struggle  with  her  sorrows. 

The  prioress  remained  silent  for  a few  minutes,  and  then 
addressed  her  in  a solemn  voice.  “ I own.  Miss  Fitzalan,  your 
conduct  appears  so  inexplicable,  so  astonishing,  that  nothing 
but  the  opinion  I have  formed  of  your  character,  from  seeing 
the  manner  in  which  you  have  acted  since  left  to  yourself,  could 
prevent  my  esteem  from  being  diminished  ; but  I am  persuaded 
you  cannot  act  from  a bad  motive,  therefore,  till  that  persua- 
sion ceases,  my  esteem  can  know  no  diminution.  From  this 
declaration  you  may  be  convinced  that,  to  the  utmost  of  my 
power,  I will  serve  you  ; yet,  ere  you  finally  determine  and  re- 
quire such  service,  weigh  well  what  you  are  about ; consider 
in  the  eyes  of  the  world  you  are  about  acting  a dishonorable 
part,  in  breaking  your  engagement  with  Lord  Mortimer  without 
assigning  some  reason  for  doing  so.  Nothing  short  of  a point 
of  conscience  should  influence  you  to  this.’’  “ Nothing  short 
of  it  has,”  replied  Amanda ; therefore  pity,  and  do  not  aggra- 
vate my  feelings,  by  pointing  out  the  consequences  which  will 
attend  the  sacrifice  I am  compelled  to  make ; only  promise 
(taking  the  prioress’s  hand), — only  promise,  in  this  great  and 
sad  emergency,  to  be  my  friend.” 

Her  looks,  her  words,  her  agonies,  stopped  short  all  the 
prioress  was  going  to  say.  She  thought  it  would  be  barbarity  any 
longer  to  dwell  upon  the  ill  consequences  of  an  action,  which  she 
was  now  convinced  some  fatal  necessity  compelled  her  to ; she 
therefore  gave  her  all  the  consolation  now  in  her  power,  by 
assuring  her  she  would  immediately  think  about  some  place  for 
her  to  retire  to,  and  would  keep  all  that  had  passed  between 
them  a profound  secret.  She  then  insisted  on  Amanda’s  lying 
down,  and  trying  to  compose  herself ; she  brought  her  drops  to 
take,  and  drawing  the  curtains  about  her,  retired  from  the  room 
In  two  hours  she  returned.  Though  she  entered  the  chamber 
softly,  Amanda  immediately  drew  back  the  curtain,  and  appeared 
much  more  composed  than  when  the  prioress  had  left  her.  The 
good  woman  would  not  let  her  rise,  but  sat  down  on  the  bed  tQ 
tell  her  what  she  had  contrived  for  her. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY  383 

She  had  a relation  in  Scotland/’  she  said,  who,  from  re- 
duced circumstances,  had  kept  a school  for  many  years.  But 
as  the  infirmities  of  age  came  on,  she  was  not  able  to  pay  so 
much  attention  to  her  pupils  as  their  friends  thought  requisite, 
and  she  had  only  been  able  to  retain  them  by  promising  to  get 
a person  to  assist  her.  As  she  thought  her  cousin  (the  prioress) 
more  in  the  way  of  procuring  such  a one  than  herself,  she  had 
written  to  her  for  that  purpose.  A clever,  well-behaved  young 
woman,  who  would  be  satisfied  with  a small  salary,  was  what 
she  wanted.  I should  not  mention  such  a place  to  you,”  said  the 
prioress,  ‘‘bufthat  the  necessity  there  is  for  your  immediately 
retiring  from  Lord  Mortimer  leaves  me  no  time  to  look  out  for 
another.  But  do  not  imagine  I wish  you  to  continue  there.  No, 
indeed  ; I should  think  it  a pity  such  talents  as  you  possess 
should  be  buried  in  such  obscurity.  What  I think  is,  that  you 
can  stay  there  till  you  grow  more  composed,  and  can  look  out 
for  a better  establishment.”  ‘‘  Do  not  mention  my  talents,” 
said  Amanda ; “ my  mind  is  so  enervated  by  grief,  that  it  will 
be  long  before  I can  make  any  great  exertion,  and  the  place  you 
have  mentioned  is,  from  its  obscurity,  just  such  a one  as  I de- 
sire to  go  to.”  ‘‘  There  is,  besides,  another  inducement,”  said 
the  prioress,  ‘‘  namely,  its  being  but  a few  miles  from  Port- 
Patrick,  to  which  place  a fair  wind  will  bring  you  in  a few  hours 
from  this.  I know  the  master  of  a little  wherry,  which  is  per- 
petually going  backwards  and  forwards.  He  lives  in  this  neigh- 
borhood, and  both  he  and  his  wife  consider  themselves  under 
obligations  to  me,  and  will  rejoice,  I am  sure,  at  an  opportunity 
of  obliging  me.  1 shall  therefore  send  for  him  this  evening,  in- 
forming him  of  the  time  you  wish  to  go,  and  desire  his  care  till 
he  leaves  you  himself  at  Mrs.  Macpherson’s.” 

Amanda  thanked  the  prioress,  who  proceeded  to  say,  “ that 
on  the  presumption  of  her  going  to  her  cousin’s,  she  had  already 
written  a letter  for  her  to  take ; but  wished  to  know  whether 
she  would  be  mentioned  by  her  own  or  a fictitious  name.” 

Amanda  replied,  ‘‘  By  a fictitious  one,”  and,  after  a little 
consideration,  fixed  on  that  of  Frances  Donald,  which  the 
prioress  accordingly  inserted,  and  then  read  the  letter : — 

TO  MRS.  MACPHERSON. 

Dear  Cousin, — The  bearer  of  *-h\s  letter,  Frances  Donald,  is  the  young 
person  I have  procured  you  for  an  assistant  in  your  school.  I have  known 
ner  some  time,  and  can  vouch  tor  her  cleverness  and  discietion.  She  is 
well  born,  and  well  educated,  and  has  seen  better  days  . but  the  wheel  of 
fortune  is  continually  turning,  and  she  bears  her  misfortunes  with  a patience 
that  to  me  is  the  best  proof  she  could  give  of  a real  good  disposition.  I have* 


384  the  children  of  the  abbey, 

told  her  you  give  but  ten  pounds  a-year.  Her  going  proves  she  is  not  dis» 
satisfied  with  the  salary.  I am  sorry  to  hear  you  are  troubled  with  rheumatic 
pains,  and  hope,  when  you  have  more  time  to  take  care  of  yourself,  you 
will  grow  better.  And  all  the  sisters  join  me  in  thanking  you  for  your  kind 
inquiries  after  them.  We  do  tolerably  well  in  the  little  school  we  keep,  and 
trust  our  gratitude  to  Heaven  for  its  present  goodness  will  obtain  a contin- 
uance of  it.  I beg  to  hear  from  yOu  soon ; and  am,  my  dear  cousin,  your 
sincere  friend  and  affectionate  kinswomr 

St.  Catherine’s.  Elizabeth  Dermot. 

I have  not  said  as  much  as  you  deserve/’  said  the  prioress  ; 
but  if  the  letter  does  not  meet  your  approbation,  I will  make 
any  alteration  you  please  in  it.”  Amanda  assured  her  it  did, 
and  the  prioress  then  said,  “ that  Lord  Mortimer  had  been 
again  at  the  convent  to  inquire  after  her,  and  was  told  she  was 
better.”  Amanda  said,  “ she  would  not  see  him  till  the  hour 
she  had  appointed  for  his  coming  to  supper.”  The  prioress 
agreed,  that  as  things  were  changed,  she  was  right  in  being  in 
his  company  as  little  as  possible,  and,  to  prevent  her  being 
in  his  way,  she  should  have  her  dinner  and  tea  in  her  own 
room.  The  cloth  was  accordingly  laid  in  it,  nor  would  the  good- 
natured  prioress  depart  till  she  saw  Amanda  eat  something. 
Sister  Mary,  she  said,  was  quite  anxious  to  come  in,  and  per- 
form the  part  of  an  attendant,  but  was  prevented  by  her. 

The  distraction  of  Amanda’s  thoughts  was  now  abated,  from 
having  everything  adjusted  relative  to  her  future  conduct,  and 
the  company  of  the  prioress,  who  returned  to  her  as  soon  as  she 
had  dined,  prevented  her  losing  the  little  composure  she  had 
with  such  difficulty  acquired. 

She  besought  the  prioress  not  to  delay  writing  after  her  de- 
parture, and  to  relate  faithfully  everything  which  happened  in 
consequence  of  her  flight.  She  entreated  her  not  to  let  a mis- 
taken compassion  for  her  feelings  influence  her  to  conceal  any- 
thing, as  anything  like  the  appearance  of  concealment  in  her 
letter  would  only  torture  her  with  anxiety  and  suspense. 

The  prioress  solemnly  promised  she  would  obey  her  request, 
and  Amanda,  with  tears,  regretted  that  she  was  now  unable  to 
recompense  the  kindness  of  the  prioress  and  the  sisterhood,  as 
she  had  lately  intended  doing  by  Lord  Mortimer’s  desire,  as 
well  as  her  own  inclination.  The  prioress  begged  her  not  to 
indulge  any  regret  on  that  account,  as  they  considered  them- 
selves already  liberally  recompensed,  and  had,  besides,  quite 
sufficient  to  satisfy  their  humble  desires. 

Amanda  said  she  meant  to  leave  a letter  on  the  dressing- 
table  for  Lord  Mortimer,  with  the  notes  which  he  had  given  her 
enclosed  in  it.  The  pictures  and  the  ring,”  said  she,  with  a 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


3^5 

falling  tear,  ‘‘  I cannot  part  with ; ” for  the  things  which  she 
had  ordered  from  the  neighboring  town,  she  told  the  prioress 
she  would  leave  money  in  her  hands,  also  a present  for  the 
woman,  who  had  been  engaged  to  attend  her  to  England,  as 
some  small  recompense  for  her  disappointment.  She  meant 
only  to  take  some  linen  and  her  mourning  to  Scotland  ; the 
rest  of  her  things,  including  her  music  and  books,  at  some  fu- 
ture and  better  period  might  be  sent  after  her. 

Amanda  was  in  debt  to  the  sisterhood  for  three  months’ 
board  and  lodging,  which  was  ten  guineas.  Of  the  two  hun- 
dred pounds  which  Lord  Mortimer  had  given  her  on  leaving 
Castle  Carberry,  one  hundred  and  twenty  pounds  remained,  so 
that  though  unable  to  answer  the  claims  of  gratitude,  she  thanked 
Heaven  she  was  able  to  fulfil  those  of  justice.  This  she  told 
the  prioress,  who  instantly  declared,  ‘‘  that,  in  the  name  of  the 
whole  sisterhood,  she  would  take  upon  her  to  refuse  anything 
from  her.”  Amanda  did  not  contest  the  point,  being  secretly  de- 
termined how  to  act.  The  prioress  drank  tea  with  her.  When 
over,  Amanda  said  she  would  lie  down,  in  order  to  try  and  be 
composed  against  Lord  Mortimer  come.  The  prioress  accord- 
ingly withdrew,  saying,  “ she  should  not  be  disturbed  till  then.” 

By  this  means  Amanda  was  enabled  to  be  in  readiness  for 
delivering  her  letter  to  Lord  Cherbury  at  the  proper  hour. 
Her  heart  beat  with  apprehension  as  it  approached.  She 
dreaded  Lord  Mortimer  again  surprising  her  amongst  the  ruins, 
cr  some  of  the  nuns  following  her  to  them.  At  last  the  clock 
gave  the  signal  for  keeping  her  appointment.  She  arose,  trem- 
bling, from  the  bed,  and  opened  the  door.  She  listened,  and  no 
liClse  announced  any  one’s  being  near.  The  moments  were 
ir-iccious.  She  glided  through  the  gallery,  and  had  the  good 
iortune  to  find  the  hall-door  open.  She  hastened  to  the  ruins, 
and  found  Lord  Cherbury  already  waiting  there.  She  presented 
him  the  letter  in  silence.  He  received  it  in  the  same  manner ; 
but  when  he  saw  her  turning  away  to  depart,  he  sna.tched  her 
hand,  and,  in  a voice  that  denoted  the  most  violent  agitation, 
exclaimed  : “Tell  me,  tell  me.  Miss  Fitzalan,  is  this  letter  pro- 
pitious ? ” “ It  is,”  replied  she,  in  a faltering  voice.  “ Then 

may  Heaven  eternally  bless  you,”  cried  he,  falling  at  her  feet, 
and  wrapping  his  arms  about  her.  His  posture  shocked  Aman- 
da, and  his  detention  terrified  her. 

“ Let  me  go,  my  lord,”  said  she.  “ In  pity  to  me,  in  mercy 
to  yourself,  let  me  go ; for  one  moment  longer  and  we  may  be 
discovered.” 

Lord  Cherbury  started  up — “From  whom,”  cried  he,  “can 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEiT. 


386 

I hear  about  you  ? “ From  the  prioress  of  St.  Catherine’s/- 

replied  Amanda,  in  a trembling  voice ; “ she  only  will  know 
the  secret  of  my  retreat.” 

He  again  snatched  her  hand  and  kissed  it  with  vehemence. 
‘‘  Farewell,  thou  angel  of  a woman  ! ” he  exclaimed,  and  dis- 
appeared amongst  the  ruins.  Amanda  hurried  back,  dreading 
every  moment  to  meet  Lord  Mortimer ; but  she  neither  met  him 
nor  any  other  person.  She  had  scarcely  gained  her  chamber 
ere  the  prioress  came  to  inform  her  his  lordship  was  in  the  par- 
ior.  She  instantly  repaired  to  it.  The  air  had  a little  changed 
the  deadly  hue  of  her  complexion,  so  that  from  her  looks  he 
supposed  her  better,  and  her  words  strengthened  the  supposition. 
She  talked  with  him,  forced  herself  to  eat  some  supper,  and 
checked  the  tears  from  falling,  which  sprang  to  her  eyes,  when- 
ever he  mentioned  the  happiness  they  must  experience  when 
united,  the  pleasure  they  should  enjoy  at  Thornbury,  and  the 
delight  Lady  Martha  and  Lady  Araminta  would  experience 
whenever  they  met. 

Amanda  desired  him  not  to  come  to  breakfast  the  next 
morning,  nor  to  the  convent  till  after  dinner,  as  she  should  be 
so  busy  preparing  for  her  journey  she  would  have  no  time  to 
devote  to  him.  He  wanted  to  convince  her  he  should  not  re- 
tard her  preparations  by  coming,  but  she  would  not  allow  this. 

Amanda  passed  another  wretched  night.  She  breakfasted 
in  the  morning  with  the  nuns,  who  expressed  their  regret  at 
losing  her — a regret,  however,  mitigated  by  the  hope  of  shortly 
seeing  her  again,  as  Lord  Mortimer  had  promised  to  bring  her 
to  Castle  Carberry  as  soon  as  she  had  visited  his  friends  in 
England,  This  was  a trying  moment  for  Amanda.  She  could 
scarcely  conceal  her  emotions,  or  keep  herself  from  weeping 
aloud,  at  the  mention  of  a promise  never  to  be  fulfilled.  She 
swallowed  her  breakfast  in  haste,  and  withdrew  to  her  chamber 
on  pretence  of  settling  her  things.  Here  she  was  immediately 
followed  by  the  nuns,  entreating  they  might  severally  be  em- 
ployed in  assisting  her.  She  thanked  them  with  her  usual  sweet- 
ness, but  assured  them  no  assistance  was  necessary,  as  she  had 
but  few  things  to  pack,  never  having  unlocked  the  chests  which 
had  come  from  Castle  Carberry.  They  retired  on  receiving  this 
assurance,  and  Amanda,  fearful  of  another  interruption,  in- 
stantly sat  down  to  write  her  farewell  letter  to  Lord  Mortimer. 

TO  LORD  MORTIMER. 

My  Lord,— a destiny,  which  neither  of  us  can  control,  forbids  our 
anion.  In  vain  were  obstacles  encountered  and  apparently  overcome  j one 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


387 

has  arisen  to  oppose  it  which  we  never  could  have  thought  of,  and,  yield- 
ing to  it,  as  I am  compelled  by  dire  necessity  to  do,  I find  myself  separated 
from  you,  without  the  remotest  hope  of  our  ever  meeting  again — without 
being  allowed  to  justify  my  conduct,  or  offer  one  excuse  which  might,  in 
some  degree,  palliate  the  abominable  ingratitude  and  deceit  I may  appear 
guilty  of ; appear,  I say,  for  in  reality  my  heart  is  a stranger  to  either,  and 
is  now  agonized  at  the  sacrifice  it  is  compelled  to  make ; but  I will  not 
hurt  your  lordship’s  feelings  by  dwelling  on  my  own  sufferings.  Already 
have  I caused  you  too  much  pain,  but  never  again  shall  I cross  your  path 
to  disturb  your  peace,  and  shade  your  prospect  of  felicity ; no,  my  lord, 
removed  to  a tedious  distance,  the  name  I love  no  more  will  sink  upon  my 
ear,  the  delusive  form  of  happiness  no  more  will  mock  me. 

Had  everything  turned  out  according  to  my  wishes,  perhaps  happiness, 
so  great,  so  unexpected,  might  have  produced  a dangerous  revolution  in  my 
sentiments,  and  withdrawn  my  thoughts  too  much  from  heaven  to  earth  : if  so, 
oh  ! blessed  be  the  power  that  snatched  from  my  lips  the  cup  of  joy,  though 
at  the  very  moment  I w^as  tasting  the  delightful  beverage. 

I cannot  bid  you  pity  me,  though  I know  myself  deserving  of  compas- 
sion ; I cannot  bid  you  forbear  condemning  me,  though  I know  myself  un- 
deserving of  censure.  In  this  letter  I enclose  the  notes  I received  from 
your  lordship ; the  picture  and  the  ring  I have  retained ; they  will  soon  be 
my  only  vestiges  of  former  happiness.  Farewell,  Lord  Mortimer,  dear  and 
invaluable  friend,  farewell  forever.  May  that  peace,  that  happiness  you  so 
truly  deserve  to  possess,  be  yours,  and  may  they  never  again  meet  with  such 
interruptions  as  they  have  received  from  the  unfortunate 

Amanda  M.  Fitzalan. 

This  letter  was  blistered  with  her  tears ; she  laid  it  in  a 
drawer  till  evening,  and  then  proceeded  to  pack  whatever  she 
meant  to  take  with  her  in  a little  trunk.  In  the  midst  of  this 
business  the  prioress  came  in  to  inform  her  she  had  seen  the 
master  of  the  wherry,  and  settled  everything  with  him.  He 
not  only  promised  to  be  secret,  but  to  sail  the  following  morn- 
ing at  four  o’clock,  and  conduct  her  himself  to  Mrs.  Macpher- 
son’s.  About  three  he  was  to  come  to  the  convent  for  her  ; 
he  had  also  promised  to  provide  everything  necessary  on  board 
for  her. 

Matters*  being  thus  arranged,  Amanda  told  the  prioress,  to 
avoid  suspicion,  she  would  leave  the  money  she  intended  for 
the  woman  who  had  been  engaged  to  accompany  her  to  Eng- 
land on  her  dressing-table,  with  a few  lines  purporting  who  it 
was  for.  The  prioress  approved  of  her  doing  so,  as  it  would 
prevent  any  one  from  suspecting  she  was  privy  to  her  departure. 
She  was  obliged  to  leave  her  directly,  and  Amanda  took  the 
opportunity  of  putting  up  fifteen  guineas  in  a paper — five  for 
the  woman,  and  ten  for  the  nuns.  She  wished  to  do  more  for 
them,  but  feared  to  obey  the  dictates  of  generosity,  while  her 
own  prospect  of  provision  was  uncertain.  She  wrote  as 
follows  to  the  prioress 


388 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.. 


TO  MRS.  DERMOT. 

Dear  Madam,— Was  my  situation  otherwise  than  it  now  is,  be  assured 
I never  should  have  offered  the  trifle  you  will  find  in  this  paper  as  any  way 
adequate  to  the  discharge  of  my  debt ; to  you  and  your  amiable  com- 
panions, I regret  my  inability  (more  than  I express)  of  proving  my  gratitude 
to  you  and  them  for  all  your  kindness — never  will  they  be  obliterated  from 
my  remembrance  ; and  He  who  has  promised  to  regard  those  that  befriend 
the  orphan,  will  reward  you  for  them.  I have  also  left  five  guineas  for  the 
woman  you  were  so  good  as  to  engage  to  attend  me  to  England.  I trust  she 
will  think  them  a sufficient  recompense  for  any  trouble  or  disappointment 
I may  have  occasioned  her. 

Farewell,  dear  Mrs.  Dermot,  dear  and  amiable  inhabitants  of  St.  Cathe- 
rine’s farewell.  As  Amanda  will  never  forget  you  in  hers,  so  let  her  never 
be  forgotten  in  your  rHsons,  and  never  cease  to  believe  her. 

Grateful,  sincere,  and  affectionate, 

A.  M.  Fitzalan. 

By  this  time  she  was  summoned  to  dinner.  Her  spirits  were 
sunk  in  the  lowest  dejection  at  the  idea  of  leaving  the  amiable 
women  who  had  been  so  kind  to  her,  and  above  all  at  the  idea 
of  the  last  sad  evening  she  was  to  pass  with  Lord  Mortimer. 

His  lordship  came  early  to  the  convent.  The  dejected 
looks  of  Amanda  immediately  struck  him,  and  renewed  all  his 
apprehensions  about  her  health.  She  answered  his  tender 
inquiries  by  saying  she  was  fatigued. 

Perhaps,”  said  he,  ‘‘you  would  like  to  rest  one  day,  and 
not  commence  your  journey  to-morrow  ! ” 

“ No,  no,”  cried  Amanda,  “ it  shall  not  be  deferred.  To- 
morrow,” continued  she,  with  a smile  of  anguish,  “ I will  com- 
mence it.” 

Lord  Mortimer  thanked  her  for  a resolution,  he  imagined, 
dictated  by  an  ardent  desire  to  please  him  ; but  at  the  same 
time  again  expressed  his  fears  that  she  was  ill. 

Amanda  perceived  that  if  she  did  not  exert  herself  her  de- 
jection would  lead  him  to  inquiries  she  would  find  it  difficult  to 
evade  ; but  as  to  exert  herself  was  impossible,  in  order  to  with- 
draw his  attention  in  some  degree  from  herself,  she  proposed 
that,  as  this  was  the  last  evening  they  would  be  at  the  convent, 
they  should  invite  the  nuns  to  drink  tea  with  them.  Lord 
Mortimer  immediately  acquiesced  in  the  proposal,  and  the  in- 
vitation being  sent  was  accepted. 

But  the  conversation  of  the  whole  party  was  of  a melancholy 
kind.  Amanda  was  so  much  beloved  among  them,  that  the 
prospect  of  losing  her  filled  them  with  a regret  which  even  the 
idea  of  seeing  her  soon  again  could  not  banish.  About  nine, 
which  was  their  hour  for  prayers,  they  rose  to  retire,  and  would 
have  taken  leave  of  Lord  Mortimer,  had  he  not  informed  them, 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  7T1E  ABBEY. 


389 

that  on  Miss  Fitzalan’s  account,  he  would  not  commence  the 
journey  next  day  till  ten  o’clock,  at  which  time  he  would  again 
have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  them. 

When  they  withdrew  he  endeavored  to  cheer  Amanda,  and 
besought  her  to  exert  her  spirits.  Of  his  own  accord,  he  said, 
he  would  leave  her  early,  that  she  might  get  as  much  rest  as 
possible  against  the  ensuing  day.  He  accordingly  rose  to  de- 
part. What  an  agonizing  moment  for  Amanda ; to  hear,  to 
behold  the  man,  so  tenderly  beloved,  for  the  last  time  ; to  think 
that  ere  that  hour  the  next  night  she  should  be  far,  far  away 
from  him,  considered  as  a treacherous  and  ungrateful  creature, 
despised,  perhaps  execrated,  as  a source  of  perpetual  disquiet 
and  sorrow  to  him  ! Her  heart  swelled  at  those  ideas  with  feel- 
ings she  thought  would  burst  it : and  when  he  folded  her  to  his 
bosom,  and  bid  her  be  cheerful  against  the  next  morning,  she 
involuntarily  returned  the  pressure,  by  straining  him  to  her 
heart  in  convulsive  agitation,  whilst  a shower  of  tears  burst 
from  her.  Lord  Mortimer,  shocked  and  surprised  at  these 
tears  and  emotions,  reseated  her,  for  her  agitation  was  conta- 
gious, and  he  trembled  so  much  he  could  not  support  her  ; then 
throwing  himself  at  her  feet,  My  Amanda  ! my  beloved  girl ! ” 
cried  he,  ‘‘  what  is  the  matter  ? Is  any  wish  of  your  heart  yet 
unfulfilled  ? If  so,  let  no  mistaken  notion  of  delicacy  influence 
you  to  conceal  it — on  your  happiness  you  know  mine  depends  j 
tell  me,  therefore,  I entreat,  I conjure  you,  tell  me,  is  there  any- 
thing I can  do  to  restore  you  to  cheerfulness  ^ Oh,  no  ! ” 
said  Amanda,  all  that  a mortal  could  do  to  serve  me  you  have 
already  done,  and  my  gratitude,  the  fervent  sense  I have  of  the 
obligations  I lie  under  to  you,  I cannot  fully  express.  May 
Heaven,”  raising  her  streaming  eyes, — “ may  Heaven  recom- 
pense your  goodness  by  bestowing  the  choicest  of  its  blessings 
on  you  ! ” ‘‘  That,”  said  Lord  Mortimer,  half  smiling,  ‘‘  it  has 

already  done  in  giving  you  to  me,  for  you  are  the  choicest  bless- 
ing it  could  bestow ; but  tell  me,  what  has  dejected  you  in  this 
manner!  something  more  than  fatigue,  I am  sure.” 

Amanda  assured  him  he  was  mistaken  ; ” and,  fearful  of 
his  further  inquiries,  told  him,  ‘‘she  only  waited  for  his  de- 
parture to  retire  to  rest,  which  she  was  convinced  would  do  her 
good.” 

Lord  Mortimer  instantly  lose  from  his  kneeling  posture : 
“ Farewell,  then,  my  dear  Amanda,”  cried  he,  “ farewell,  and  be 
well  and  cheerful  against  the  morning.” 

She  pressed  his  hand  between  hers,  and  laying  her  cold  wet 
cheek  upon  it : “ Farewell,”  said  she ; “ when  we  next  meet  I 


390 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


shall,  I trust,  be  well  and  cheerful ; for  in  heaven  alone  (thought 
she  at  that  moment)  we  shall  ever  meet  again.” 

On  the  spot  in  which  he  left  her  Amanda  stood  motionless, 
till  she  heard  the  hall-door  close  after  him  ; all  composure  then 
forsook  her,  and,  in  an  agony  of  tears  and  sobs,  she  threw  her- 
self on  the  seat  he  had  occupied.  The  good  prioress,  guessing 
what  her  feelings  at  this  moment  must  be,  was  at  hand,  and 
came  in  with  drops  and  water,  which  she  forced  her  to  take,  and 
mingled  the  tears  of  sympathy  with  hers. 

Her  soothing  attentions  in  a little  time  had  the  eifect  she 
desired.  They  revived  in  some  degree  her  unhappy  young 
friend,  who  exclaimed,  that  the  severest  trial  she  could  ever 
possibly  experience  was  now  over.”  And  will,  I trust  and 
believe,”  replied  the  prioress,  ‘‘even  in  this  life  be  yet  re- 
warded.” 

It  was  agreed  that  Amanda  should  put  on  her  habit,  and  be 
prepared  against  the  man  came  for  her.  The  prioress  promised, 
as  soon  as  the  house  was  at  rest,  to  follow  her  to  her  chamber. 
Amanda  accordingly  went  to  her.  apartment  and  put  on  her 
travelling  dress.  She  was  soon  followed  by  the  prioress,  who 
brought  in  bread,  wine,  and  cold  chicken  ; but  the  full  heart  of 
Amanda  would  not  allow  her  to  partake  of  them,  and  her  tears, 
in  spite  of  her  efforts  to  restrain  them,  again  burst  forth.  “ She 
was  sure,”  she  said,  “the  prioress  would  immediately  let  her 
know  if  any  intelligence  arrived  of  her  brother,  and  she  again 
besought  her  to  write  as  soon  as  possible  after  her  departure, 
and  to  be  minute.” 

She  left  the  letters — one  for  Lord  Mortimer  and  the  other 
for  the  prioress — on  the  table,  and  then  with  a kind  of  melan- 
choly impatience  waited  for  the  man,  who  was  punctual  to  the 
appointed  hour  of  three,  and  announced  his  arrival  by  a tap  at 
the  window.  She  instantly  rose  and  embraced  the  prioress  in 
silence,  who,  almost  as  much  affected  as  herself,  had  only  power 
to  say,  “ God  bless  you,  my  dear  child,  and  make  you  as  happy 
as  you  deserve  to  be.” 

Amanda  shook  her  head  mournfully,  as  if  to  say  she  expected 
no  happiness,  and  then,  softly  stepping  along  the  gallery,  opened 
the  hall-door,  where  she  found  the  man  waiting.  Her  little 
trunk  was  already  lying  in  the  hall.  She  pointed  it  out  to  him, 
and  as  soon  as  he  had  taken  it  they  departed. 

Never  did  any  being  feel  more  forlorn  than  Amanda  now  did. 
What  she  suffered  when  quitting  the  marchioness’s  was  com- 
paratively happiness  to  what  she  now  endured.  She  then  looked 
£orw>  'K)  the  protection,  contf«>rt,  and  support  of  a tender 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


391 

parent ; now  she  had  nothing  in  view  which  could  in  the  least 
cheer  or  alleviate  her  feelings.  She  cast  her  mournful  eyes 
around,  and  the  objects  she  beheld  heightened,  if  possible,  her 
anguish.  She  beheld  the  old  trees  which  shaded  the  grave  of 
her  father  waving  in  the  morning  breeze,  and  oh  ! how  fervently 
at  that  moment  did  she  wish  that  by  his  side  she  was  laid  be- 
neath their  shelter ! 

She  turned  from  them  with  a heart-rending  sigh,  which 
reached  the  ear  of  the  man  who  trudged  before  her.  He  in- 
stantly turned,  and  seeing  her  pale  and  trembling,  told  her  he 
had  an  arm  at  her  service,  which  she  gladly  accepted,  being 
scarcely  able  to  support  herself.  A small  boat  was  waiting  for 
them  about  half  a mile  above  Castle  Carberry.  It  conveyed 
them  in  a few  moments  to  the  vessel,  which  the  master  pre- 
viously told  her  would  be  under  weigh  directly.  She  was 
pleased  to  find  his  wife  on  board,  who  conducted  Amanda  to 
the  cabin,  where  she  found  breakfast  laid  out  with  neatness  for 
her.  She  took  some  tea  and  a little  bread,  being  almost 
exhausted  with  fatigue.  Her  companion,  imputing  her  dejec- 
tion to  fears  of  crossing  the  sea,  assured  her  the  passage  would 
be  very  short,  and  bid  her  observe  how  plainly  they  could  see 
the  Scottish  hills,  now  partially  gilded  by  the  beams  of  the 
rising  sun  ; but,  beautiful  as  they  appeared,  Amanda’s  eyes 
were  turned  from  them  to  a more  interesting  object, — Castle 
Carberry.  She  asked  the  woman  if  she  thought  the  castle 
could  be  seen  from  the  opposite  coast  ? and  she  replied  in  the 
negative. 

“ I am  sorry  for  it,”  said  Amanda,  mournfully.  She  con- 
tinued at  the  window  for  the  melancholy  pleasure  of  contem- 
plating it,  till  compelled  by  sickness  to  lie  down  on  the  bed. 
The  woman  attended  her  with  the  most  assiduous  care,  and 
about  four  o’clock  in  the  afternoon  informed  her  they  had 
reached  Port-Patrick.  Amanda  arose,  and  sending  for  the 
master,  told  him,  as  she  did  not  wish  to  go  to  an  inn,  she 
would  thank  him  to  hire  a chaise  to  carry  her  directly  to  Mrs. 
Macpherson’s.  He  said  she  should  be  obeyed  ; and  Amanda 
having  settled  with  him  for  her  passage,  he  went  on  shore  for 
that  purpose,  and  soon  returned  to  inform  her  a carriage  was 
ready.  Amanda,  having  thanked  his  wife  for  her  kind  atten- 
tion, stepped  into  the  boat,  and  entered  the  chaise  the  moment 
she  landed.  Her  companion  told  her  he  was  well  acquainted 
with  Mrs.  Macpherson,  having  frequently  carried  packets  from 
Mrs.  Dermot  to  her.  She  lived  about  five  miles  from  Port- 
Patrick,  he  said,  and  near  the  sea-coast.  They  accordingly  soon 


392 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 

reached  her  habitation.  It  was  a small,  low  house,  of  a grayish 
color,  situated  in  a field  almost  covered  with  thistles,  and 
divided  from  the  road  by  a rugged-looking  wall.  The  sea  lay 
at  a little  distance  from  it.  The  coast  hereabouts  was  extremely 
rocky,  and  the  prospect  on  every  side  wild  and  dreary  in  the 
extreme. 

Amanda’s  companion,  by  her  desire,  went  first  into  the 
house  to  prepare  Mrs.  Macpherson  for  her  reception.  He  re- 
turned in  a few  minutes,  and  telling  her  she  was  happy  at  her 
arrival,  conducted  her  into  the  house.  From  a narrow  passage, 
they  turned  into  a small,  gloomy-looking  parlor,  with  a clay 
floor.  Mrs.  Macpherson  was  sitting  in  an  old-fashioned  arm- 
chair— her  face  was  sharp  and  meagre — rher  stature  low,  and, 
like  Otway’s  ancient  Beldame,  doubled  v/ith  age ; her  gown 
was  gray  stuff,  and,  though  she  was  so  low,  it  was  not  long 
enough  to  reach  her  ankle  ; her  black-silk  apron  was  curtailed 
in  the  same  manner,  and  over  a little  mob-cap  she  wore  a hand- 
kerchief tied  under  the  chin.  She  just  nodded  to  Amanda  on 
her  entrance,  and,  putting  on  a pair  of  large  spectacles,  sur- 
veyed her  without  speaking.  Amanda  presented  Mrs.  Der- 
mot’s  introductory  letter,  and  then,  though  unbidden,  seated 
herself  on  the  window-seat  till  she  had  perused  it.  Her  trunk, 
in  the  mean  time,  was  brought  in,  and  she  paid  for  the  carriage, 
requesting  at  the  same  time  the  master  of  the  vessel  to  wait 
till  she  had  heard  what  Mrs.  Macpherson  would  say.  At  length 
the  old  lady  broke  silence,  and  her  voice  was  quite  as  sharp  as 
her  face. 

So,  child,”  said  she,  again  surveying  Amanda,  and  then 
elevating  her  spectacles  to  have  a better  opportunity  of  speak- 
ing, ‘‘  why,  to  be  sure  I did  desire  my  cousin  to  get  me  a young 
person,  but  not  one  so  young,  so  very  young,  as  you  appear  to 
be.”  Lord  bless  you  ! ” said  the  man,  “ if  that  is  a fault, 
why,  it  is  one  v/ill  mend  every  day.”  Ay,  ay,”  cried  the  old 
dame,  but  it  will  mend  a little  too  slow  for  me.  However, 
child,  as  you  are  so  v/ell  recommended,  I will  try  you.  My 
cousin  says  something  of  your  being  well  born,  and  having  seen 
better  days.  Flowever,  child,  I tell  you  beforehand,  I shall  not 
consider  what  you  have  been,  but  what  you  are  now.  I shall 
therefore  expect  you  to  be  mild,  regular,  and  attentive — no 
flaunting,  no  gadding,  no  chattering,  but  staid,  sober,  and 
modest.”  “ Bless  your  heart,”  said  the  man,  if  you  look  in 
her  face  you  will  see  she’ll  be  all  you  desire.”  “ Ay,  ay,  so  you 
may  say  ; but  I should  be  very  sorry  to  depend  upon  the 
promise  of  a face — like  the  heart,  it  is  often  treacherous  and 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBE  Y. 


393 


deceitful;  so  pray,  young  woman,  tell  me,  and  remember  I 
expect  a conscientious  answer,  whether  you  think  you  will 
be  able  to  do  as  I wish?”  ‘‘Yes,  madam,”  replied  Amanda, 
in  a voice  almost  choked  by  the  variety  of  painful  emo- 
tions she  experienced. 

“Well,  then,  we  are  agreed;  you  know  the  salary  I give.” 
The  master  of  the  vessel  now  took  his  leave,  never  having 
been  asked  by  Mrs.  Macpherson  to  take  any  refreshment 

The  heart  of  Amanda  sunk  within  her  from  the  moment  she 
entered  Mrs.  Macpherson’s  door.  She  shuddered  at  being  left 
with  so  unsocial  a being  in  a place  so  wild  and  dreary.  A 
hovel  near  St.  Catherine’s  she  would  have  thought  a palace  in 
point  of  real  comfort  to  her  present  habitation,  as  she  then 
could  have  enjoyed  the  soothing  society  of  the  tender  and 
amiable  nuns.  The  presence  of  the  master  of  the  vessel,  from 
the  pity  and  concern  he  manifested  for  her,  had  something  con- 
solatory in  it,  and  when  he  left  the  room  she  burst  into  tears,  as 
if  then,  and  not  till  then,  she  had  been  utterly  abandoned. 
She  hastily  followed  him  out.  “ Give  my  love,  my  best  love,” 
said  she,  sobbing  violently,  and  laying  her  trembling  hand  on 
his,  “ to  Mrs.  Dermot,  and  tell  her,  oh  I tell  her  to  write  directly, 
and  give  me  some  comfort.” 

“You  may  depend  on  my  doing  so,”  replied  he,  “but  cheer 
up,  my  dear  young  lady  ; what  though  the  old  dame  in  the 
parlor  is  a little  cranky,  she  will  mend,  no  doubt ; so  Heaven 
bless  you,  and  make  you  as  happy  as  you  deserve  to  be.” 

Sad  and  silent,  Amanda  returned  to  the  parlor,  and  seating 
herself  in  the  window,  strained  her  eyes  after  the  carriage  which 
had  brought  her  to  this  dismal  spot. 


CHAPTER  XLIL 

Of  joys  clep:|rtect  never  to  return. 

How  bitter  the  remembrance  I ” — Blair. 

“ Well,  child,”  said  Mrs.  Macpherson,  “ do  you  choose  to 
take  anything  ? ” “ I thank  you,  madam,”  replied  Amanda, 

“ I should  like  a little  tea.”  “ Oh  ! as  to  tea,  I have  just  taken 
my  own,  and  the  things  are  all  washed  and  put  by ; but,  if  you 
like  a glass  of  spirits  and  water,  and  a crust  of  bread,  you  may 
have  it.”  Amanda  said  she  did  not.  “ Oh  I very  well,”  cried 


394 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEf. 


Mrs.  Macplierson,  I shall  not  press  you,  for  supper  will  soon 
be  ready.’’  She  then  desired  Amanda  to  draw  a chair  near 
hers,  and  began  torturing  her  with  a variety  of  minute  and 
trifling  questions  relative  to  herself,  the  nuns,  and  the  neighbor- 
hood of  St.  Catherine’s. 

Amanda  briefly  said,  her  father  had  been  in  the  army,  that 
many  disappointments  and  losses  had  prevented  his  making 
any  provision  for  her,  and  that  on  his  death,  which  happened 
in  the  neighborhood  of  the  convent,  the  nuns  had  taken  her 
out  of  compassion,  till  she  procured  an  establishment  for  her- 
self.” and  a comfortable  one  you  have  procured  your- 

self, I promise  you,”  said  Mrs.  Macplierson,  if  it  is  not  your 
own  fault.”  She  then  told  Amanda,  she  would  amuse  her  by 
showing  her  her  house  and  other  concerns.”  This  indeed  was 
easily  done,  as  it  consisted  but  of  the  parlor,  two  closets  adjoin- 
ing it,  and  the  kitchen,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  entry ; the 
other  concerns  were  a small  garden,  planted  with  kail,  and  the 
field  covered  with  thistles.  ‘^A  good,  comfortable  tenement 
this,”  cried  Mrs.  Macplierson,  shaking  her  head  with  much 
satisfaction,  as  she  leaned  upon  her  ebony-headed  cane,  and 
cast  her  eyes  around.  She  bid  Amanda  admire  the  fine  pros- 
pect before  the  door,  and,  calling  to  a red-haired  and  bare- 
legged girl,  desired  her  to  cut  some  thistles  to  put  into  the  fire, 
and  hasten  the  boiling  of  the  kail.  On  returning  to  the  parlor 
she  unlocked  a press,  and  took  out  a pair  of  coarse,  brown 
sheets  to  air  for  Amanda.  She  herself  slept  in  one  closet,  and 
in  the  other  was  a bed  for  Amanda^  laid  on  a half-decayed  bed- 
stead, without  curtains,  and  covered  with  a blue-stuff  quilt. 
The  closet  was  lighted  by  one  small  window,  which  looked  into 
the  garden,  and  its  furniture  consisted  of  a broken  chair,  and  a 
piece  of  looking-glass  stuck  to  the  wall. 

The  promised  supper  was  at  length  served.  It  consisted 
of  a few  heads  of  kail,  some  oaten  bread,  a jug  of  water,  and  a 
small  phial  half  full  of  spirits,  which  Amanda  would  not  taste, 
.and  the  old  lady  herself  took  but  sparingly.  They  were  lighted 
by  a small  candle,  which,  on  retiring  to  their  closets,  Mrs.  Mac- 
pherson  cut  between  them. 

Amanda  felt  relieved  by  being  alone.  She  could  now  with- 
out restraint  indulge  her  tears  and  her  reflections  ; that  she 
could  never  enjoy  any  satisfaction  with  a being  so  ungracious 
in  her  manners  and  so  contracted  in  her  notions,  she  foresaw ; 
but,  disagreeable  as  her  situation  must  be,  she  felt  inclined  to 
continue  in  it,  from  the  idea  of  its  giving  her  more  opportuni- 
ties of  hearing  from  Mrs.  Dermot  than  she  could  have  in  almost 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


39S 

any  other  place,  and  by  these  opportunities  alone  could  she  ex- 
pect to  hear  of  Lord  Mortimer ; and  to  hear  of  him,  even  the 
most  trifling  circumstance,  though  divided,  forever  divided 
from  him,  would  be  a source  of  exquisite  though  melancholy 
pleasure. 

To  think  she  should  hear  of  him,  at  once  soothed  and  fed 
her  melancholy.  It  lessened  the  violence  of  sorrow,  37et  with- 
out abating  its  intenseness  ; it  gave  a delicious  sadness  to  her 
soul  she  thought  would  be  ill  exchanged  for  any  feelings  short 
of  those  she  must  have  experienced,  if  her  wishes  had  been 
accomplished.  She  enjoyed  the  oensive  luxury  of  virtuous 
grief,  which  mitigates  the  sharp 

“ With  gracious  drops 
Of  cordial  pleasure,’* 

and  which  Akenside  so  beautifully  describes ; nor  can  I forbear 
quoting  the  lines  he  has  written  to  illustrate  the  truth-— 

Ask  the  faithful  youth 

Why  the  cold  urn  of  her,  whom  long  he  loved 
So  often  fills  his  arms,  so  often  draws 
His  lonely  footsteps  at  the  silent  hour. 

To  pay  the  mournful  tribute  of  his  tears? 

O,  he  wil!  tell  thee,  that  the  wealth  of  worlds 
Should  ne’er  seduce  his  bosom  to  forego 
That  sacred  hour,  when,  stealing  from  the  noise 
Of  care  and  envy,  sweet  remembrance  soothes 
With  virtue’s  kindest  looks  his  aching  heart, 

And  turns  his  tears  to  rapture.” 

Fatigued  by  the  contending  emotions  she  experienced,  as 
well  as  the  sickness  she  went  through  at  sea,  Amanda  soon 
retired  to  her  flock  bed,  and  fell  into  a profound  slumber,  in 
which  she  continued  till  roused  in  the  morning  by  the  shrill 
voice  of  Mrs.  Macpherson,  exclaiming,  as  she  rapped  at  the 
door,  ‘‘  Come,  come,  Frances,  it  is  time  to  rise.” 

Amanda  started  from  her  sleep,  forgetting  both  the  name 
she  had  adopted  and  the  place  where  she  was ; but  Mrs.  Mac- 
pherson again  calling  her  to  rise,  restored  her  to  her  recollec- 
tion. She  replyed  she  would  attend  her  directly,  and,  hurrying 
on  her  clothes,  was  with  her  in  a few  minutes.  She  found  thw 
old  lady  seated  at  the  breakfast-table,  who,  instead  of  return- 
ing her  salutation,  said,  “ that  on  account  of  her  fatigue  shr: 
excused  her  lying  so  long  in  bed  this  morning,  for  it  was  now 
eight  o’clock ; but  in  future  she  would  expect  her  to  rise  be- 
fore six  in  summer,  and  seven  in  winter,  adding,  as  there  was 
no  clock,  she  would  rap  at  her  door  for  that  purpose  every 
morning.” 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


396 

Amanda  assured  her  she  was  fond  of  rising  early,  and 
always  accustomed  to  it.”  The  tea  was  now  poured  out ; it 
was  of  the  worst  kind,  and  sweetened  with  coarse  brown  sugar; 
the  bread  was  oaten,  and  there  was  no  butter.  Amanda,  un- 
used to  such  unpalatable  fare,  swallowed  a little  of  it  with  diffi- 
culty, and  then,  with  some  hesitation,  said  “ she  would  prefer 
milk  to  tea,”  Mrs.  Macpherson  frowned  exceedingly  at  this, 
and,  after  continuing  silent  a few  minutes,  said,  she  had  really 
made  tea  for  two  people,  and  she  could  not  think  of  having  it 
wasted ; besides,  she  added,  the  economy  of  her  house  was  so 
settled  she  could  not  infringe  it  for  any  one.”  She  kept  no  cow 
herself,  and  only  took  in  as  much  milk  as  served  her  tea  and 
an  old  tabby-cat. 

Amanda  replied,  ‘‘  it  was  of  no  consequence,”  and  Mrs. 
Macpherson  said,  indeed  she  supposed  so,  and  muttered  some- 
thing of  people  giving  themselves  airs  they  had  no  pretensions 
to.  The  tea-table  was  removed  before  nine,  when  the  school 
began ; it  consisted  of  about  thirty  girls,  most  of  them  daugh- 
ters of  farmers  in  the  neighborhood.  Amanda  and  they  bet'^vg  in- 
troduced to  each  other  (and  she  being  previously  informed  what 
they  were  taught),  was  desired  to  commence  the  task  of  in- 
structing them  entirely  herself  that  day,  as  Mrs.  Macpherson 
wanted  to  observe  her  manner — a most  unpleasant  task  indeed 
for  poor  Amanda,  whose  mind  and  body  were  both  harassed  by 
anxiety  and  fatigue.  As  she  had  undertaken  it,  however,  she 
resolved  to  go  through  it  with  as  much  cheerfulness  and  alac- 
rity as  possible.  She  accordingly  acquitted  herself  to  the 
satisfaction  of  Mrs.  Macpherson,  who  only  found  fault  with  her 
too  great  gentleness,  saying,  the  children  would  never  fear  her. 
At  two  the  school  broke  up,  and  Amanda,  almost  as  delighted 
as  the  children  to  be  at  liberty,  was  running  into  the  garden  to 
try  it  the  air  would  be  of  use  to  a very  violent  headache  ; when 
she  was  called  back  to  put  the  forms  and  other  things  in  order. 
She  colored,  and  stood  motionless,  till  recollecting  that  if  she 
refused  to  obey  Mrs.  Macpherson  a quarrel  w^ould  probably 
ensue,  which,  circumstanced  as  she  was,  without  knowing 
where  to  go  to,  would  be  dreadful,  she  silently  performed  what 
she  had  been  desired  to  do.  Dinner  was  then  brought  in  ; it 
was  as  simple  and  as  sparing  as  a Braman  could  desire  it  to  be. 
When  over,  Mrs.  Macpherson  composed  herself  to  take  a nap 
in  the  large  chair,  without  making  any  kind  of  apology  to 
Amanda. 

Left  at  liberty,  Amanda  would  now  have  walked  out ; but 
it  had  just  begun  to  rain,  and  everything  looked  dreary  and 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


397 


desolate.  From  the  window  in  which  she  pensively  sat  she  had 
a view  of  the  sea ; it  looked  black  and  tempestuous,  and  she 
could  distinguish  its  awful  and  melancholy  roaring  as  it  dashed 
against  the  rocks.  The  little  servant-girl,  as  she  cleaned  the 
kitchen,  sung  a dismal  Scotch  ditty,  so  that  all  conspired  to 
oppress  the  spirits  of  Amanda  with  a dejection  greater  than 
she  had  before  ever  experienced  ; all  hope  was  now  extinct, 
the  social  ties  of  life  seemed  broken,  nevermore  to  be  reunited. 
She  had  now  no  father,  no  friend,  no  lover,  as  heretofore,  to 
soothe  her  feelings,  or  alleviate  her  sorrows.  Like  the  poor 
Belvidera  she  might  have  said, 

“ There  was  a time 
Her  cries  and  sorrows 

Were  not  despised,  when,  if  she  chanced  to  sigh. 

Or  but  look  sad,  a friend  or  parent 
Would  have  taken  her  in  their  arms. 

Eased  her  declining  head  upon  their  breasts. 

And  never  left  her  till  they  found  the  cause ; 

But  now  let  her  weep  seas. 

Cry  till  she  rend  the  earth,  sigh  till  she  burst 
Her  heart  asunder,  she  is  disregarded.’^ 

Like  a tender  sapling,  transplanted  from  its  native  soil,  she 
seemed  to  stand  alone,  exposed  to  every  adverse  blast.  Her 
tears  gushed  forth,  and  fell  in  showers  down  her  pale  cheeks. 
She  sighed  forth  the  name  of  her  father : Oh ! dear  and  most 
benignant  of  men,’’  she  exclaimed,  ‘‘  my  father  and  my  friend  ; 
were  you  living,  I should  not  be  so  wretched  ; pity  and  conso- 
lation would  then  be  mine.  Oh  ! my  father,  one  of  the  drear- 
iest caverns  in  yonder  rocks  would  be  an  asylum  of  comfort 
were  you  with  me ; but  I am  selfish  in  these  regrets,  certain  as 
I am  that  you  exchanged  this  life  of  wretchedness  for  one  of 
eternal  peace,  for  one  where  you  were  again  united  to  your 
Malvina.” 

Her  thoughts  adverted  to  what  Lord  Mortimer,  in  all  prob- 
ability, now  thought  of  her ; but  this  was  too  dreadful  to  dwell 
upon,  convinced  as  she  was,  that,  from  appearances,  he  must 
think  most  unfavorably  of  her.  His  picture  was  hung  in  her 
bosom,  she  drew  it  out.  She  gazed  with  agonizing  tenderness 
upon  it.  She  pressed  it  to  her  lips,  and  prayed  for  its  original. 
From  this  indulgence  of  sorrow  she  was  disturbed  by  the  wak- 
ing of  Mrs.  Macpherson.  She  hastily  wiped  away  her  tears, 
and  hid  the  beloved  picture.  The  evening  passed  most  dis- 
agreeably. Mrs.  Macpherson  was  tedious  and  inquisitive  in  her 
discourse,  and  it  was  almost  as  painful  to  listen  as  to  answer 
her.  Amanda  was  happy  when  the  hour  for  retiring  to  bed 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


398 

arrived,  and  relieved  her  from  what  might  be  called  a kind  oi 
mental  bondage. 

Such  was  the  first  day  Amanda  passed  in  her  new  habita- 
tion, and  a week  elapsed  in  the  same  manner  without  any  vari- 
ation, except  that  on  Sunday  she  had  a cessation  from  her 
labors,  and  went  to  the  kirk  with  Mrs.  Macpherson.  At  the 
end  of  the  week  she  found  herself  so  extremely  ill  from  the 
fatigue  and  confinement  she  endured,  as  Mrs.  Macpherson 
would  not  let  her  walk  out,  saying,  ‘‘  gadders  were  good  for 
nothing  ” — that  she  told  her,  except  allowed  to  go  out  every 
evening,  she  must  leave  her,  as  she  could  not  bear  so  sedentary 
a life.  Mrs.  Macpherson  looked  disconcerted,  and  grumbled 
a good  deal ; but  as  Amanda  spoke  in  a resolute  manner,  she 
was  frightened  lest  she  should  put  her  threats  into  execution, 
she  was  so  extremely  useful  in  the  school ; and  at  last  told  her 
she  might  take  as  much  exercise  as  she  pleased  every  day  after 
dinner. 

Amanda  gladly  availed  herself  of  this  permission.  She  ex- 
plored all  the  romantic  paths  about  the  house  ; but  the  one  she 
chiefly  delighted  to  take  was  that  which  led  to  the  sea.  She 
loved  to  ramble  about  the  beach  ; when  fatigued  to  sit  down 
upon  the  fragment  of  a rock  and  look  towards  the  opposite 
shore.  Vainly  then  w^ould  she  try  to  discover  some  of  the  ob- 
jects she  knew  so  well.  Castle  Carberry  was  utterly  undistin- 
guishable,  but  she  knew  the  spot  on  which  it  stood,  and  de- 
rived a melancholy  pleasure  from  looking  that  way.  In  these 
retired  rambles  she  would  freely  indulge  her  tears,  and  gaze 
upon  the  picture  of  Lord  Mortimer.  She  feared  no  observa- 
tion ; the  rocks  formed  a kind  of  recess  about  her,  and  in 
going  to  them  she  seldom  met  a creature. 

A fortnight  passed  in  this  way,  and  she  began  to  feel  sur- 
prise and  uneasiness  at  not  hearing  from  Mrs.  Dermot.  If 
much  longer  silent,  she  resolved  on  writing,  feeling  it  impos- 
sible to  endure  much  longer  the  agony  her  ignorance  of  Lord 
Mortimer’s  proceedings  gave  her.  The  very  morning  previous 
to  the  one  she  had  fixed  for  writing  she  saw  a sailor  coming  to 
the  house,  and  believing  he  was  the  bearer  of  a letter  to  her, 
she  forgot  everything  but  her  feelings  at  the  moment,  and 
starting  from  her  seat  ran  from  the  room.  She  met  him  a few 
yards  from  the  house,  and  then  perceived  he  was  one  of  the 
sailors  of  the  vessel  she  had  come  over  in.  ‘‘You  have  a 
letter  for  me,  I hope  ? ” said  Amanda.  The  man  nodded,  and 
fumbling  in  his  bosom  for  a moment,  pulled  out  a large  packet, 
which  Amanda  snatched  with  eager  transport  from  him ; and 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


399 


knowing  she  could  not  attempt  to  bring  him  into  the  house  for 
refreshment,  gave  him  a crown  to  procure  it  elsewhere,  which  he 
received  with  thankfulness,  and  departed.  She  then  returned 
to  the  parlor,  and  was  hastening  to  her  closet  to  read  the  letter, 
when  Mrs.  Macpherson  stopped  her.  “ Hey-day,’’  cried  she, 
what  is  the  matter  ? — what  is  all  this  fuss  about  ? Why,  one 
would  think  that  was  a love  letter,  you  are  so  very  eager  to 
read  it.”  It  is  not,  then,  I can  assure  you,”  said  Amanda. 

Well,  well ; and  who  is  it  from  ? ” Amanda  reflected  that  if 
she  said  from  Mrs.  Dermot  a number  of  impertinent  questions 
would  be  asked  her.  She  therefore  replied : ‘‘  From  a very 
particular  friend.”  From  a very  particular  friend  1 Well,  I 
suppose  there  is  nothing  about  life  or  death  in  it,  so  you  may 
wait  till  after  dinner  to  read  it ; and  pray  sit  down  now,  and 
hear  the  children  their  spelling  lessons.”  This  was  a tanta- 
lizing moment  to  Amanda.  She  stood  hesitating  whether  she 
should  obey,  till  reflecting  that  if  she  went  now  to  read  the 
packet,  she  should  most  probably  be  interrupted  ere  she  had  got 
through  half  the  contents,  she  resolved  on  putting  it  up  till  after 
dinner.  The  moment  at  last  came  for  Mrs.  Macpherson’s  usual 
nap,  and  Amanda  instantly  hastened  to  a recess  amongst  the 
rocks,  where  seating  herself,  she  broke  the  seal.  The  envelope 
contained  two  letters.  The  first  she  cast  her  eyes  upon  was 
directed  in  Lord  Cherbury’s  hand.  She  trembled,  tore  it  open, 
and  read  as  follows : — 

TO  MISS  FITZALAN. 

In  vain,  my  dear  madam,  do  you  say  you  never  will  receive  pecuniary 
favors  from  me.  It  is  not  you,  but  I,  should  lie  under  obligations  from  their 
acceptance.  I should  deem  myself  the  most  ungrateful  of  mankind  if  I did 
not  insist  on  carrying  this  point.  I am  but  just  returned  to  London,  and 
shall  immediately  order  my  lawyer  to  draw  up  a deed  entitling  you  to  three 
hundred  pounds  a year,  which,  when  completed,  I shall  transmit  to  the 
prioress  (as  I have  this  letter)  to  send  to  you.  I am  sensible,  indeed,  that 
I never  can  recompense  the  sacrifice  you  have  made  me.  The  feelings  it 
has  excited  I shall  not  attempt  to  express,  because  language  could  never  do 
them  justice ; but  you  may  conceive  what  I must  feel  for  the  being  who  has 
preserved  me  from  dishonor  and  destruction.  I am  informed  Lord  Mor- 
timer has  left  Ireland,  and  . therefore  daily  expect  him  in  town.  I have 
now  not  only  every  hope,  but  every  prospect,  of  his  complying  with  my 
wishes.  This,  I imagine,  will  be  rather  pleasing  to  you  to  hear,  that  you 
may  know  the  sacrifice  you  have  made  is  not  made  in  vain,  but  will  be 
attended  with  all  the  good  consequences  I expected  to  derive  from  it.  I 
should  again  enjoy  a tolerable  degree  of  peace,  were  I assured  you  were 
happy ; but  this  is  an  assurance  I will  hope  soon  to  receive ; for  if  you  are 
not  happy,  who  has  a right  to  expect  being  so  ? — you  whose  virtue  is  so  pure, 
whose  generosity  is  so  noble,  so  heroic,  so  far  superior  to  any  I have  ever 
inet  with  1 


400 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY,. 


That  in  this  world,  as  well  as  the  next,  yon  may  be  rewarded  for  it,  is, 
dear  madam,  the  sincere  wish  of  him  who  has  the  honor  to  subscribe  him- 
self your  most  grateful,  most  obliged,  and  most  obedient  humble  servant, 

Cherbury. 

Unfeeling  man  ! ” exclaimed  Amanda,  “ how  little  is  your 
heart  interested  in  what  you  write,  and  how  slight  do  you  make 
of  the  sacrifice  I have  made  you  ; how  cruelly  mention  your 
hopes,  which  are  derived  from  the  destruction  of  mine!  No, 
sooner  would  1 wander  from  door  to  door  for  charity,  than  be 
indebted  to  your  ostentatious  gratitude  for  support — you,  whose 
treachery  and  vile  deceit  have  ruined  my  happiness,’’  She 
closed  the  letter,  and  committing  it  to  her  pocket,  took  up  the 
other,  which  she  saw  by  the  direction  was  from  her  dear  Mrs, 
Dermot. 

TO  MISS  DONALD. 

Ah  ! my  dear  child,  why  extort  a promise  from  me  of  being  minute  in 
relating  everything  which  happened  in  consequence  of  your  departure — a 
promise  so  solemnly  given  that  I dare  not  recede  from  it  ; yet  most  unwill- 
ingly do  I keep  it,  sensible  as  I am  that  the  intelligence  I have  to  commu- 
nicate will  but  aggravate  your  sorrows.  Methinks  I hear  you  exclaim  at 
this  : Surely,  my  dear  Mrs.  Dermot,  you  who  know  my  disposition  and 
temper  so  well,  might  suppose  I would  receive  such  intelligence  with  a for- 
titude and  patience  that  would  prevent  its  materially  injuring  me.^*  Well, 
my  dear,  hoping  this  will  be  the  case,  I begin,  without  further  delay,  to  com- 
municate particulars.  You  left  me,  you  may  remember,  about  three  o’clock. 
I then  went  to  bed,  but  so  fatigued  and  oppressed  I could  scarcely  sleep, 
and  was  quite  unrefreshed  by  what  I did  get.  After  prayers  I repaired  to 
the  parlor,  where  the  assiduous  care  of  Sister  Mary  had  already  prepared 
everything  for  your  breakfast  and  Lord  Mortimer’s.  I told  the  sisters  not 
to  appear  till  they  were  sent  for.  I had  not  been  long  alone  when  Lord 
Mortimer  came  in — cheerful,  blooming,  animated.  Never  did  I see  happi- 
ness so  strongly  impressed  in  any  countenance  as  in  his  He  looked,  indeed, 
the  lover  about  receiving  the  precious  reward  of  constancy.  He  asked  me 
had  I seen  you.?  I answered.  No.  He  soon  grew  impatient,  said  you  were 
a lazy  girl,  and  feared  you  would  make  a bad  traveller.  He  then  rang  the 
bell,  and  desired  the  maid  to  go  and  call  you.  Oh  ! my  dear  girl,  my  heart 
almost  died  within  me  at  this  moment.  I averted  my  head,  and  pretended 
to  be  looking  at  the  garden  to  conceal  my  confusion.  The  maid  returned 
in  a few  minutes,  and  said  you  were  not  above.  “Well,”  said  Lord  Mor- 
timer, “ she  is  in  some  other  apartment ; pray  search,  and  hasten  her 
hither.”  In  a few  minutes  after  she  departed.  Sister  Mary,  all  pale  and 
breathless,  rushed  into  the  room.  “ Oh,  heavens  ! ” cried  she,  “ Miss  Fitz- 
alan  cannot  be  found;  but  here  are  two  letters  I found  on  her  dressing-table 
— one  for  you,  madam,  and  one  for  Lord  Mortimer.”  I know  not  how  he 
looked  at  this  instant,  for  a guilty  consciousness  came  over  my  mind,  which 
prevented  mv  raising  my  eyes  to  his.  I took  the  letter  in  silence,  opened, 
but  had  no  power  to  read  it.  Sister  Mary  stood  by  me,  wringing  her  hands 
and  weeping,  as  she  exclaimed,  “ What — what  does  she  say  to  you  .?  ” 1 

could  neither  answer  her  nor  move,  till  a deep  sigh,  or  rather  groan,  from 
Lord  Mortimer  roused  me.  I started  from  my  seat,  and  perceived  him  pale 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  HUE  ABBEY. 


401 


and  motionless,  the  letter  open  in  his  hand,  upon  which  his  eyes  were 
riveted.  I threw  open  the  garden  door  to  give  him  air.  This  a little 
revived  him.  “Be  comforted,  my  lord/^  said  I.  He  shook  his  bead 
mournfully,  and  waving  his  hand  for  me  neither  to  speak  nor  follow  him, 
passed  into  the  garden.  “Blessed  Heaven!”  said  Sister  Mary  again, 
“ what  does  she  say  to  you  ! ” I gave  her  your  letter,  and  desired  her  to 
read  it  aloud,  for  the  tears  which  flowed  at  the  affecting  situation  of  Lord 
Mortimer  quite  obscured  my  sight.  And  here,  my  dear  child,  I must  declare 
that  you  have  been  too  generous,  and  also,  that  the  sum  you  betrayed  us 
into  taking  is  but  considered  as  a loan  by  us.  But,  to  return  to  my  first 
subject.  The  alarm  concerning  you  now  became  general,  and  the  nuns 
crowded  into  the  room — grief  and  consternation  in  every  countenance.  In 
about  half  an  hour  I saw  Lord  Mortimer  returning  to  the  parlor,  and  I then 
dismissed  them.  He  had  been  endeavoring  to  compose  himself,  but  his 
efforts  for  doing  so  were  ineffectual.  He  trembled,  was  pale  as  death,  and 
spoke  with  a faltering  voice.  He  gave  me  your  letter  to  read,  and  I put 
mine  into  his  hand.  “Well,  my  lord,”  said  I,  on  perusing  it,  “we  must 
rather  pity  than  condemn  her.”  “ From  my  soul,”  cried  he,  “ I pity  her — 
I pity  such  a being  as  Amanda  Fitzalan,  for  being  the  slave,  the  prey  of 
vice.  But  she  has  been  cruel  to  me ; she  has  deceived,  inhumanly  deceived 
me,  and  blasted  my  peace  for  ever  1 ” “ Ah,  my  lord  1 ” I replied,  “ though 

appearances  are  against  her,  I can  never  believe  her  guilty.  She,  who  per- 
formed all  the  duties  of  a child,  as  Amanda  Fitzalan  did,  and  who,  to  my 
certain  knowledge,  was  preparing  herself  for  a life  of  poverty,  can  never  be 
a victim  to  vice.”  “ Mention  her  no  more,”  cried  he  ; “ her  name  is  like  a 
dagger  to  my  heart.  The  suspicions  which,  but  a few  nights  ago,  I could 
have  killed  myself  for  entertaining,  are  now  confirmed.  They  intruded  on 
my  mind  from  seeing  Belgrave  haunting  this  place,  and  from  finding  her 
secreted  amidst  the  ruins  at  a late  hour.  Ah,  heavens  I when  I noticed  her 
confusion,  how  easily  did  she  exculpate  herself  to  a heart  prepossessed  like 
mine  in  her  favor  1 Unhappy,  unfortunate  girl ! sad  and  pitiable  is  thy  fate ! 
but  may  an  early  repentance  snatch  thee  from  the  villain  who  now  triumphs 
in  thy  ruin  ; and  may  we,  since  thus  separated,  never  meet  again.  So  well,” 
continued  he,  “ am  I convinced  of  the  cause  of  her  flight,  that  I shall  not 
make  one  inquiry  after  her  ” I again  attempted  to  speak  in  your  justifica- 
tion, but  he  silenced  me.  I begged  he  would  allow  me  to  get  him  breakfast. 
He  could  touch  nothing,  and  said  he  must  return  directly  to  Castle  Car- 
berry,  but  promised,  in  the  course  of  the  day,  to  see  me  again.  I followed 
him  into  the  hall.  At  the  sight  of  your  corded  boxes,  he  started,  and  shrunk 
back,  with  that  kind  of  melancholy  horror  which  we  involuntarily  feel  when 
viewing  anything  that  belonged  to  a dear,  lost  friend.  I saw  his  emotions 
were  agonizing.  He  hid  his  face  with  his  handkerchief,  and,  with  a hasty 
step,  ascended  to  his  carriage,  which,  with  a travelling  chaise,  was  waiting 
at  the  door. 

I own  I was  often  tempted,  in  the  course  of  conversation,  to  tell  him  all 
I knew  about  you ; but  the  promise  I had  given  you  still  rose  to  my  view, 
and  I felt,  without  your  permission,  I could  not  break  it  ; yet,  my  dear,  it  is 
shocking  to  me  to  have  such  imputations  cast  on  you.  We  cannot  blame 
Lord  Mortimer  for  them.  Situated  as  you  were  with  him,  your  conduct  has 
naturally  excited  the  most  injurious  suspicions.  Surely,  my  child,  though 
not  allowed  to  solve  the  mystery  which  has  separated  you  from  him,  you 
may  be  allowed  to  vindicate  your  conduct.  The  sacrifice  of  fame  and  hap- 
piness is  too  much.  Consider  and  weigh  well  what  I say,  and,  if  possible, 
authorize  me  to  inform  Lord  Mortimer  that  I know  of  your  retreat,  and  that 
you  have  ne^lier  to  a lover  nor  a friend ; but  to  indigence  and 


402 


THE  CHILD'kEN  OF  THE  ABBEY,  . 


obscurity,  led  thither  by  a fatal  necessity  which  you  are  bound  to  conceal^ 
and  feel  more  severely  from  that  circumstance.  He  would,  I am  confident, 
credit  my  words  ; and  then,  instead  of  condemning,  would  join  me  in  pity* 
ing  you.  The  more  I reflect  on  your  unaccountable  separation,  the  more  am 
I bewildered  in  conjectures  relative  to  it,  and  convinced  more  strongly  than 
ever  of  the  frailty  of  human  joy,  which,  like  a summer  cloud,  is  bright,  but 
transitory  in  its  splendor.  Lord  Mortimer  had  left  the  convent  about  two 
hours,  when  his  man  arrived  to  dismiss  the  travelling  chaise  and  attendants. 
I went  out  and  inquired  after  his  lord.  “ He  is  very  bad,  madam,’^  said  he, 
“and  this  has  been  a sad  morning  for  us  all.”  Never,  my  dear  Miss  Fitz- 
alan,  did  I,  or  the  sisterhood,  pass  so  melancholy  a day.  About  five  in  the 
afternoon,  I received  another  visit  from  Lord  Mortimer.  I was  alone  in  the 
parlor,  which  he  entered  with  an  appearance  of  the  deepest  melancholy ; 
one  of  his  arms  was  in  a sling.  I was  terrified,  lest  he  and  Belgrave  had 
met.  He  conjectured,  I fancy,  the  occasion  of  the  terror  my  countenance 
expressed,  for  he  immediately  said  he  had  been  ill  on  returning  to  Castle 
Carberry,  and  was  bled.  He  was  setting  off  directly  for  Dublin,  he  said, 
from  whence  he  intended  to  embark  for  England.  “But  I could  not  depart, 
my  dear,  good  friend,”  continued  he,  “ without  bidding  you  farewell ; besides, 
I wanted  to  assure  you,  that  any  promise  which  the  unfortunate  girl  made 
you  in  my  name  I shall  hold  sacred.”  I knew  he  alluded  to  the  fifty  pounds 
which  he  had  desired  you  to  tell  me  should  be  annually  remitted  to  our 
house.  I instantly,  therefore,  replied,  that  we  had  already  been  rewarded 
beyond  our  expectation  or  desires  for  any  little  attention  we  showed 
Miss  Fitzalan  ; but  his  generous  resolution  was  not  to  be  shaken.  He 
looked  weak  and  exhausted.  I begged  permission  to  make  tea  for  him 
ere  he  commenced  his  journey.  He  consented.  I went  out  of  the  room  to 
order  in  the  things.  When  I returned,  he  was  standing  at  the  window 
which  looked  into  the  garden,  so  absorbed  in  meditation  that  he  did  not 
hear  me.  I heard  him  say,  “ Cruel  Amanda!  is  it  thus  you  have  rewarded 
my  sufferings  ? ” I retreated,  lest  he  should  be  confused  by  supposing  him* 
self  overheard,  and  did  not  return  till  the  maid  brought  in  the  tea  things. 

When  he  arose  to  depart,  he  looked  wavering  and  agitated,  as  if  there  was 
something  on  his  mind  be  wanted  courage  to  say.  At  last,  in  a faltering 
voice,  while  the  deadly  paleness  of  his  complexion  gave  way  to  a deep  crim- 
son, he  said,  “I  left  Miss  Fitzalan’s  letter  with  you,”  Ah,  my  dear! 
never  did  man  love  woman  better  than  he  did,  than  he  now  loves  you.  I 
took  the  letter  from  my  pocket,  and  presented  it  to  him.  He  put  it  in  his 
bosom,  with  an  emotion  that  shook  his  whole  frame.  I hailed  this  as  x 
favorable  opportunity  for  again  speaking  in  your  favor.  I bid  him  retro* 
spect  your  past  actions,  and  judge  from  them  whether  you  could  be  guilty 

of  a crime . He  stopped  me  short.  He  begged  me  to  drop  a subject 

he  was  unable  to  bear.  Had  he  been  less  credulous,  he  said,  he  should  now 
have  been  much  happier  ; then  wringing  my  hand,  he  bid  me  farewell,  in  a 
voice,  and  with  a look,  that  drew  tears  from  me.  “ Ah,  my  dear  madam ! ” 
cried  he,  “ when  this  day  commenced,  how  differently  did  I think  it  would 
have  terminated ! ” 

I attended  him  to  his  carriage.  He  was  obliged  to  lean  upon  his  man 
as  he  ascended  to  it,  and  his  looks  and  agitation  proclaimed  the  deepest 
distress.  I have  sent  repeatedly  to  Castle  Carberry  since  his  departure  to 
inquire  about  him,  and  have  been  informed,  that  they  expect  to  hear  noth- 
ing of  him  till  Lord  Cherbury’s  agent  comes  into  the  country,  which  will 
not  be  these  three  months. 

I have  heard  much  of  the  good  he  did  in  the  neighborhood.  He  has  a 
bounteous  and  benevolent  spirit  indeed.  To  our  community  he  has  been  a 


T£IE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


403 


liberal  benefactor,  and  our  prayers  are  daily  offered  up  for  liis  restoration 
to  health  and  tranquillity.  Amongst  his  other  actions,  when  in  Dublin, 
about  three  months  ago,  he  ordered  a monument  to  the  memory  of  Captain 
Fitzalan,  which  has  been  brought  down  since  your  departure,  and  put  up  in 
the  parish  church,  where  he  is  interred.  I sent  Sister  Mary  and  another  of 
the  nuns  the  other  evening  to  see  it,  and  they  brought  me  a description  of 
it.  It  is  a white  marble  urn,  ornamented  with  a foliage  of  laurel,  and  stand- 
ing upon  a pedestal  of  gray,  on  which  the  name  of  the  deceased,  and  words 
to  the  following  effect,  are  inscribed,  namely  ; “ That  he  whose  memory  it 
perpetuates,  performed  the  duties  of  a Christian  and  a so’dier,  with  a fidelity 
and  zeal  that  now  v/arrants  his  enjoying  a blessed  recompense  for  both.’’ 

I know  this  proof  of  respect  to  your  father  will  deeply  affect  you  ; but  I 
would  not  omit  telling  it,  because,  though  it  will  affect,  I am  confident  it 
will  also  please  you.  The  late  events  have  cast  a gloom  over  all  our  spirits. 
Sister  Mary  now  prays  more  than  ever ; and  you  know  I have  often  told 
her  she  was  only  fit  for  a religious  vocation.  It  is  a bad  world,  she  says, 
we  live  in,  and  she  is  glad  she  has  so  little  to  say  to  it. 

I am  longing  to  hear  from  you.  Pray  tell  me  how  you  like  Mrs.  Mac* 
pherson.  I have  not  seen  her  since  her  youth,  and  years  often  produce  as 
great  a change  in  the  temper  as  the  face.  At  any  rate,  your  present  situa- 
tion is  too  obscure  for  you  to  continue  in,  and,  as  soon  as  your  thoughts  are 
collected  and  composed,  you  must  look  out  for  another.  I hope  you  will  b& 
constant  in  writing ; but  I tell  you  beforehand,  you  must  not  expect  me  to 
be  punctual  in  my  answers — I have  been  so  long  disused  to  writing,  and  my 
eyes  are  grown  so  weak.  This  letter  has  been  the  w'ork  of  many  days ; be- 
sides, I have  really  nothing  interesting  to  communicate  ; whenever  I have, 
you  may  be  assured  I shall  not  lose  a moment  in  informing  you. 

The  woman  was  extremely  thankful  ’for  the  five  guineas  you  left  her. 
Lord  Mortimer  sent  her  five  more  by  his  man  ; so  that  she  thinks  herself 
well  rewarded  for  any  trouble  or  disappointment  she  experienced.  If  you 
wish  to  have  any  of  your  things  sent  to  you,  acquaint  me ; you  know  I shall 
never  want  an  opportunity  by  the  master  of  the  vessel.  He  speaks  largely 
of  your  generosity  to  him,  and  expresses  much  pity  at  seeing  so  young  a 
person  in  such  melancholy.  May  Heaven,  if  it  does  not  remove  the  source, 
at  least  lessen  this  melancholy. 

If  possible,  allow  me  to  write  to  Lord  Mortimer,  and  vindicate  you  from 
the  unworthy  suspicions  he  entertains  of  you.  I know  he  would  believe  me, 
and  I should  do  it  without  discovering  your  retreat.  Farewell,  my  dear 
girl.  I recommend  you  constantly  to  the  care  of  Heaven,  and  beg  you  to 
believe  you  will  ever  be  dear  and  interesting  to  the  heart  of 

Elizabeth  Dermot 

St.  Catherine’s. 

Poor  Amanda  wept  over  this  letter.  I have  ruined  the 
health,  the  peace  of  Lord  Mortimer/’  she  exclaimed,  “ and  he 
now  execrates  me  as  the  source  of  his  unhappiness.  Oh ! 
Lord  Cherbury-;  how  severely  do  I suffer  for  your  crime  ! ” 
She  began  to  think  her  virtue  had  been  too  heroic  in  the 
sacrifice  she  had  made.  But  this  was  a transient  idea,  for 
when  she  reflected  on  the  disposition  of  Lord  Cherbury,  she 
was  convinced  the  divulgement  of  his  secret  would  have  been 
followed  by  his  death  ; and,  great  as  was  her  present  wretched* 
^ess,  she  felt  it  light  compared  to  the  horrors  she  knew  she 


404 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  - 


would  experience  could  she  accuse  herself  of  being  accessory  to 
such  an  event.  She  now  drank  deeply  of  the  cup  of  misery, 
but  conscious  rectitude,  in  some  degree,  lessened  its  noxious 
bitterness.  She  resolved  to  caution  Mrs.  Dermot  against  men- 
tioning her  in  any  manner  to  Lord  Mortimer.  She  was  well 
convinced  he  would  believe  no  assseveration  of  her  innocence. 
And  even  if  he  did,  what  end  could  it  answer  ? Their  union 
was  opposed  by  an  obstacle  not  to  be  surmounted,  and  if  he 
sought  and  discovered  her  retreat,  it  would  only  lead  to  new 
sorrows,  perhaps  occasion  some  dreadful  catastrophe.  We 
are  separated,’^  cried  she,  folding  her  hands  together,  “for- 
ever separated  in  this  world,  but  in  Heaven  we  shall  again  be 
reunited.’’ 

Absorbed  in  the  reflections  and  sorrow  this  letter  gave  rise 
to,  she  remained  in  her  seat  till  Mrs.  Macpherson’s  little  girl 
suddenly  appeared  before  her,  and  said  her  mistress  had  made 
tea,  and  was  wondering  what  kept  her  out  so  long. 

Amanda  instantly  arose,  and  carefully  putting  up  the  letter, 
returned  to  the  house,  where  she  found  Mrs.  Macpherson  in  a 
very  bad  humor.  She  grumbled  exceedingly  at  Amanda’s 
staying  out  so  long,  and  taking  notice  of  her  eyes  being  red 
and  swelled,  said,  “ indeed,  she  believed  she  was  right  in  sup- 
posing she  had  got  a love-letter.”  Amanda  made  no  reply, 
and  the  evening  passed  away  in  peevishness  on  one  side  and 
silence  on  the  other. 

The  charm  which  had  hitherto  rendered  Amanda’s  situation 
tolerable  was  now  dissolved,  as  Mrs.  Dermot  had  said  she 
could  write  but  seldom,  and  scarcely  expected  to  have  anything 
.interesting  to  relate.  She  would  gladly,  therefore,  have  left 
Mrs.  Macpherson  immediately,  but  she  knew  not  where  to  go. 
She  resolved,  however,  ere  winter  had  entirely  set  in,  to  request 
Mrs.  Dermot  to  look  out  for  some  other  place  for  her  : as  she 
had  connections  in  Scotland,  she  thought  she  might  recommend 
her  to  them  as  a governess,  or  a fit  person  to  do  fine  works  for 
a lady.  She  rose  long  before  her  usual  hour  the  next  morning, 
and  wrote  a letter  ev|)ressive  of  her  wishes  and  intentions  to 
Mrs.  Dermot,  which  she  sent  by  a poor  man,  who  lived  near 
the  house  to  th^  f/ist-town,  rewarding  him  liberally  for  his 
trouble 


riTB  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


405 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

“ Who  kno\\'s  the  joys  of  friendship, 

The  trust,  security  and  mutual  tenderness, 

The  double  joys,  where  each  is  glad  for  both  ; 

Friendship,  our  only  wealth,  our  last  retreat  and  strength, 

Secure  against  ill-fortune  and  the  world?  — Rowe. 

Among  Mrs.  Macpherson’s  pupils  were  two  little  girls,  who 
pleased  and  interested  Amanda  greatly.  Their  father,  for 
whom  they  were  in  mourning,  had  perished  in  a violent  storm, 
and  their  mother  had  pined  in  health  and  spirits  ever  since 
the  fatal  accident.  The  kindness  with  which  Amanda  treated 
them,  they  repaid  with  gratitude  and  attention.  It  had  a 
double  effect  upon  their  little  hearts,  from  being  contrasted 
with  the  sour  austerity  of  Mrs,  Macpherson.  They  told 
Amanda,  in  a whisper,  one  morning,  that  their  mamma  was 
coming  to  see  their  dear,  good  Frances  Donald. 

Accordingly,  in  the  course  of  the  day,  Mrs.  Duncan  came. 
She  was  young  and  pleasing  in  her  appearance  ; her  weeds  and 
deep  dejection  rendered  her  a most  interesting  object.  She 
sat  by  Amanda,  and  took  an  opportunity,  while  Airs.  Macpher- 
Bon  was  engaged  with  some  of  the  children,  to  tell  her,  in  a low 
voice,  she  was  truly  obliged  to  her  for  the  great  attention  and 
kindness  she  showed  her  little  girls,  so  unlike  their  former 
treatment  at  the  school.’’  ‘‘  The  task  of  instructing  them  was 
hers,”  she  said,  till  her  declining  health  and  spirits  rendered 
her  no  longer  able  to  bear  it.”  Amanda  assured  her,  it  was 
a pleasure  to  instruct  minds  so  docile  and  sweet  tempered  as 
theirs.”  Mrs.  Duncan,  as  she  rose  to  depart,  asked  her  and 
Mrs.  Macpherson  to  tea  that  evening,  'which  invitation  was 
instantly  accepted  by  Mrs.  Macpherson,  who  was  extremely 
fond  of  being  sociable  everywhere  but  in  her  own  house.  Mrs. 
Duncan  lived  at  but  a little  distance,  and  everything  in  and 
about  her  house  was  neat  and  comfortable.  She  had  an  old 
neighbor  in  the  parlor,  who  kept  Mrs.  Macpherson  in  chat,  and 
gave  her  an  opportunity  of  conversing  freely  with  Amanda. 
She  remarked  the  delicacy  of  her  looks,  and  said  ‘‘  She  be- 
lieved she  was  ill-qualified  to  endure  so  fatiguing  a life  as  her 
present  one.”  She  mentioned  her  own  lonely  and  melancholy 
life,  and  the  happiness  she  would  derive  from  having  such  a 
companion,  and  expressed  her  hopes  of  often  enjoying  he,r 


4o6 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


society,  Amanda  said  this  would  be  impossible  without  dis- 
obliging  Mrs.  Macpherson ; and  Mrs.  Duncan,  on  reflection, 
allowed  it  would  be  so.  She  then  inquired  if  she  ever  walked  P 
Amanda  replied  she  did ; and  was  asked  where  she  generally 
rambled  ? By  the  sea-side,  she  answered.  Mrs.  Duncan  sighed 
deeply,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  “ It  is  there  I generally 
ramble  too,’’  said  she.  This  led  to  the  mention  of  her  late 
loss.  Mr.  Duncan  had  been  the  kindest,  best  of  husbands,’^ 
she  said  ; the  first  years  of  their  marriage  were  attended 
with  difficulties,  which  were  just  removed,  when  he  was  lost  on 
a party  of  pleasure,  with  several  others.  It  was  some  consola- 
tion, however,”  continued  Mrs.  Duncan,  ‘‘that  the  body  was 
cast  upon  the  shore,  and  I had  the  power  of  paying  the  last 
rites  of  decency  and  respect  to  him.”  In  short,  between  her 
and  Amanda  there  appeared  a mutual  sympathy,  which  ren- 
dered them  truly  interesting  to  each  other.  From  this  period 
they  generally  met  every  evening,  and  passed  many  hours  on 
the  “ sea-beat  shore,”  talking,  and  often  weeping,  over  joys 
departed,  never  to  return  ! Mrs.  Duncan  was  too  delicate  to 
inquire  into  Amanda’s  former  situation  ; but  was  well  convinced 
it  had  been  very  different  from  her  present  one.  Amanda, 
however,  of  her  own  accord,  told  her  what  she  had  told  Mrs. 
Macpherson  respecting  herself.  Mrs.  Duncan  lamented  her 
misfortunes  ; but  since  she  had  met  them,  blessed  the  happy 
chance  which  conducted  her  near  her  habitation. 

A month  passed  in  this  manner,  v/hen  one  evening,  at  the 
usual  place  of  meeting,  Mrs.  Duncan  told  her,  “ that  she  believed 
she  should  soon  be  quitting  that  part  of  the  country.”  Amanda 
started,  and  turned  pale  at  this  disagreeable  intelligence.  She 
had  received  no  answer  to  her  letter  from  Mrs.  Dermot,  conse- 
quently dreaded  that  necessity  would  compel  her  to  remain  in 
her  present  situation,  and  on  Mrs.  Duncan  s society  she  had 
depended  for  rendering  it  bearable  to  her. 

“ I have  been  invited,  my  dear  girl,”  said  Mrs.  Duncan, 
leaning  on  her  arm  as  they  walked  up  and  down  the  beach, 
“ to  reside  with  an  aunt,  who  has  always  been  kind,  and  partic- 
ularly so  to  me  in  my  distress.  She  lives  about  ten  miles  from 
this,  at  an  old  place  called  Dunreath  Abbey,  of  w^hich  she  is 
housekeeper.  Have  you  ever  heard  of  it  ? ” Anianda’s  agita- 
tion at  hearing  her  mother’s  native  habitation  mentioned,  is  not 
to  be  described.  Her  heart  palpitated;  she  felt  her  cold 
change,  and  said  Yes  and  No  to  Mrs.  Duncan,  without  knowing 
what  she  answered.  Then  recollecting  herself,  she  replied, 
^ she  had  heard  of  it.”  Well,  then,  my  dear,”  continued  Mrs^ 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

K 


iyuncan,  “ my  aunt,  as  I have  already  told  you,  is  housekeeper 
there.  She  lives  in  great  grandeur,  for  it  is  a magnificent  old 
seat,  and  has  the  absolute  command  of  everything,  as  none  of 
the  family  have  resided  at  it  since  the  Earl  of  Dunreath’s  de- 
cease. My  aunt  is  lately  grown  weary  of  the  profound  solitude 
in  which  she  lives,  and  has  asked  me,  in  a letter  which  I received 
this  morning,  to  go  immediately  and  take  up  my  residence  with 
her,  promising,  if  I do,  she  will  leave  everything  she  is  worth  to 
me  and  my  children  ; and  as  her  salary  is  very  good,  l^now  she 
must  have  saved  a good  deal.  This  is  a very  tempting  offer, 
and  I am  only  withheld  from  accepting  it  directly  by  the  fear 
of  depriving  my  children  of  the  advantages  of  education.’’ 

Why,”  said  Amanda,  “ what  they  learn  at  Mrs.  Macpherson’s 
they  could  easily  learn  anywhere  else.”  “ But  I intended,  when 
they  were  a little  older,”  replied  Mrs.  Duncan,  to  go  to  some 
one  of  the  neighboring  towns  with  them.  If  I once  go  to  my 
aunt,  I must  entirely  relinquish  such  an  idea,  and  to  a board- 
ing-school I could  not  send  them,  for  I have  not  fortitude  to 
bear  a separation  from  them.  What  I wish,  therefore,  is  to 
procure  a person  who  would  be  at  once  a pleasing  companion 
for  me,  and  an  eligible  governess  for  them.  With  such  a person, 
the  solitude  of  Dunreath  Abbey  would  be  rather  agreeable  than 
irksome  to  me.” 

She  looked  earnestly  at  Amanda  as  she  spoke,  and  Aman- 
da’s heart  began  to  throb  with  hope  and  agitation.  “ In  short, 
my  dear  girl,”  continued  she,  ^‘you  of  all  others,  to  be  explicit, 
are  the  person  I would  choose  to  bring  along  with  me.  Your 
sweet  society  would  alleviate  my  sorrows,  and  your  elegant  ac- 
complishments give  to  my  children  all  the  advantages  I desire 
them  to  possess.”  “ I am  not  only  flattered,  but  happy  by  your 
prepossession  in  my  favor,”  replied  Amanda. 

‘‘  I am  pleased  we  agree  in  point  of  inclination,”  said  Mrs. 
Duncan  ; “ but  I must  now  inform  you  that  my  aunt  has  always 
been  averse  to  admit  any  strangers  to  the  x\bbey.  Why,  I know 
not,  except  it  is  by  the  commands  of  the  family ; and  she  tells 
me  in  her  letter,  that  if  I accept  her  invitation,  I must  not  on 
any  account  let  it  be  known  where  I am  removing  to.  I dare 
not,  therefore,  bring  you  with  me  without  her  permission ; but 
I shall  write  immediately  and  request  it.  In  the  course  of  a 
day  or  two  I may  expect  an  answer.  In  the  mean  time,  give 
Mrs.  Macpherson  no  intimation  of  our  present  intentions,  lest 
they  should  be  defeated.”  Amanda  promised  she  would  not, 
and  they  separated. 

She  was  now  in  a state  of  the  greatest  agitation,  at  the  prob- 


4o8  the  children  OF  THE  ABBEY, 

ability  there  was  that  she  might  visit  the  seat  of  her  ancestors. 
She  dreaded  a disappointment,  and  felt  that,  if  she  went  there 
as  the  companion  of  Mrs.  Duncan,  she  should  be  better  situated 
than  a few  hours  before  she  had  ever  expected  to  be  again. 
Two  evenings  after  her  conversation  with  Mrs.  Duncan,  on  go- 
ing to  the  beach  to  meet  her,  she  saw  her  approaching  with  an 
open  letter  in  her  hand,  and  a smile  on  her  face,  which  informed 
her  its  contents  were  pleasing.  They  were  so  indeed,  as  they 
gave  permission  to  have  Amanda  brought  to  the  Abbey,  pro- 
vided she  promised  inviolable  secrecy  as  to  where  she  was  going. 
This  Amanda  cheerfully  did,  and  Mrs.  Duncan  said  she  had 
some  affairs  to  settle,  which  would  prevent  their  departure  for 
a few  days.  At  whatever  time  she  appointed  her  aunt  was  to 
send  a carriage  for  then,  and  it  was  now  agreed  that  Mrs. 
Macpherson  should  be  informed  Mrs.  Duncan  was  leaving  that 
part  of  the  country,  and  had  engaged  Amanda  as  a governess  to 
her  children. 

Mrs.  Duncan  then  mentioned  her  own  terms.  Amanda  as- 
sured her  an  idea  of  them  had  never  entered  her  thoughts.  Mrs. 
Duncan  said  she  was  sure  of  that,  but  at  the  same  time  thought 
between  the  most  intimate  friends  exactness  should  be  preserved 
Everything  being  settled  to  their  mutual  satisfaction,  they  sepa- 
rated, and  the  following  day,  after  school  broke  up,  Amanda 
informed  Mrs.  Macpherson  of  her  intended  departure.  The 
old  dame  was  thunderstruck,  and  for  some  time  unable  to  speak  ; 
but  when  she  recovered  the  use  of  her  tongue,  she  expressed 
the  utmost  rage  and  indignation  against  Amanda,  Mrs.  Duncan, 
and  the  prioress.  Against  the  first  for  thinking  of  leaving  her, 
the  second  for  inveigling  her  away,  and  the  third  for  recommend- 
ing a person  who  could  serve  her  in  such  a manner.  When  she 
stopped,  exhausted  by  her  violence,  Amanda  took  the  opportu- 
nity of  assuring  her  that  she  had  no  reason  to  condemn  any  of 
them  ; as  for  her  part,  previous  to  Mrs.  Duncan’s  offer,  she  in- 
tended to  leave  her,  being  unable  to  bear  a life  of  such  fatigue  ; 
that  as  her  removal  would  not  be  immediate,  Mrs.  Macpherson 
could  suffer  no  inconvenience  by  it,  there  being  time  enough  to 
look  out  for  another  person  ere  it  took  place.  But  the  truth 
now  broke  from  Mrs.  Macpherson  ; angry  as  she  was  with 
Amanda,  she  could  not  help  confessing,  that  she  never  again  ex- 
pected to  meet  with  a person  so*  well  qualified  to  please  her, 
and  a torrent  of  bitter  reproaches  again  burst  forth  for  her 
quitting  her. 

Amanda  resented  them  not,  but  did  all  in  her  power  to  mol- 
lify her  ; as  the  most  effectual  method  of  doing  so,  she  declared 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


409 

she  meant  to  take  no  recompense  for  the  time  she  had  been 
with  her,  and  added,  if  she  had  her  permission,  she  would  write 
that  evening  to  MrSo  Dermot  about  a woman  she  had  seen  at 
the  convent,  whom  she  thought  well  qualified  to  be  an  assistant 
in  her  school.  This  was  the  woman  who  had  been  engaged  to 
attend  her  to  England.  Mrs.  Macpherson  at  last  consented 
she  should  write  for  her,  as  her  wrath  had  gradually  subsided 
from  the  moment  Amanda  declared  she  would  take  no  payment 
Amanda  accordingly  wrote  to  Mrs.  Dermot,  and  informed  het 
of  the  agreeable  change  there  was  about  taking  place  in  hei 
situation ; also  of  Mrs.  Macpherson’s  displeasure,  and  her  own 
wish  that  a person  might  immediately  be  procured  to  fill  the 
place  she  was  resigning.  She  mentioned  the  woman  already 
spoken  of  as  a proper  person,  but  requested,  if  she  consented 
to  come,  she  might  not  be  allowed  to  do  so  till  she  had  left  Mrs, 
Macpherson’s,  else  who  she  really  was  would  be  betrayed.  She 
now  thought  little  of  the  tedious  and  disagreeable  days  she 
spent,  as  the  eagerness  with  which  she  saw  Mrs.  Duncan  pre- 
paring for  their  departure  promised  so  speedily  to  change  them. 
She  received  an  answer  from  Ireland  even  sooner  than  she  ex- 
pected. Mrs.  Dermot  congratulated  her  on  having  met  with  so 
amiable  a friend  as  Mrs.  Duncan,  said  the  woman  accepted  the 
offer  made  in  Mrs.  Macpherson’s  name,  but  should  not  depart 
till  she  had  written  for  that  purpose,  and  concluded  her  letter 
by  saying,  there  Vv\as  no  intelligence  yet  of  Lord  Mortimer. 
Mrs.  Macpherson  was  pleased  to  find  she  should  not  be  long 
without  a companion,  and  two  days  after  the  receipt  of  the 
letter  Mrs.  Duncan  told  Amanda  their  journe}^  was  fixed  for  the 
ensuing  day,  and  begged  Amanda  to  sleep  at  her  house  that 
night,  to  which  she  gladly  consented  ; accordingly  after,  dinner 
she  took  leave  of  Mrs.  Macpherson,  who  grumbled  out  a farewell, 
and  a hope  that  she  might  not  have  reason  to  repent  quitting 
her,  for  the  old  lady  was  so  incensed  to  have  the  place  Mrs. 
Duncan  was  going  to  concealed  from  her  that  all  her  ill- 
humor  had  returned.  Amanda  with  a pleasure  she  could 
scarcely  conceal,  quitted  her  inhospitable  mansion,  and,  at- 
tended by  a man  who  carried  her  trunk,  soon  found  herself 
at  Mrs.  Duncan’s,  where  she  was  received  with  every 
demonstration  of  joy.  The  evening  passed  sociably  away  j 
they  rose  early  in  the  morning,  and  had  just  breakfasted  when 
the  expected  carriage  from  Dunreath  Abbey  arrived.  It  was  a 
heavy,  old-fashioned  chaise,  on  whose  faded  panels  the  arms 
of  the  Dunreath  family  were  still  visible.  Mrs.  Duncan’s  lug- 
gage had  been  sent  off  the  preceding  day,  so  that  there  was 


410 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY: 


nothing  now  to  delay  them.  Mrs.  Duncan  made  Amanda  and 
the  children  go  into  the  chaise  before  her,  but,  detained  by  an 
emotion  of  the  most  painful  nature,  she  lingered  sometime  after 
them  upon  the  threshold.  She  could  not  indeed  dep^t  from 
the  habitation  where  she  had  experienced  so  many  happy  days 
with  the  man  of  her  tenderest  affections  without  a flood  of  tears, 
which  spoke  the  bitterness  of  her  feelings.  Amanda  knew  too 
well  the  nature  of  those  feelings  to  attempt  restraining  them ; 
but  the  little  children,  impatient  to  begin  their  journey,  called 
out  to  their  mamma  to  come  into  the  carriage.  She  started 
when  they  spoke,  but  instantly  complied  with  their  desire  : and 
Vvhen  they  expressed  their  grief  at  seeing  her  cheeks  wet  with 
tears,  kissed  them  both,  and  said  she  would  soon  recover  her 
spirits.  She  accordingly  exerted  herself  for  that  purpose,  and 
was  soon  in  a condition  to  converse  with  Amanda.  The  day 
was  fine  and  serene  ; they  travelled  leisurely,  for  the  horses  had 
long  outlived  their  mettlesome  days,  and  gave  them  an  oppor- 
tunity of  attentively  viewing  the  prospects  on  each  side,  which 
were  various,  romantic,  and  beautiful ; the  novelty  of  the 
scenes,  the  disagreeable  place  she  had  left,  and  the  idea  of  the 
one  she  was  going  to,  helped  a little  to  enliven  the  pensive  soul 
of  Amanda,  and  she  enjoyed  a greater  degree  of  tranquillity 
than  she  had  before  experienced  since  her  separation  from 
Lord  Mortimer. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

“ My  listening  powers 

Were  awed,  and  every  tliought  in  silence  hung 
And  wondering  expectation.’* — Akenside. 

My  dear  Fanny,’’  said  Mrs.  Duncan,  addressing  our 
heroine  by  her  borrowed  name,  ‘‘  if  at  all  inclined  to  supersti- 
tion, you  are  now  going  to  a place  which  will  call  it  forth. 
Dunreath  Abbey  is  gothic  and  gloomy  in  the  extreme,  and  re- 
calls to  one’s  mind  all  the  stories  they  ever  heard  of  haunted 
houses  and  apparitions.  The  desertion  of  the  native  inhabitants 
has  hastened  the  depredations  of  time,  whose  ravages  are  un- 
repaired, except  in  the  part  immediately  occupied  by  the 
domestics.  Yet  what  is  the  change  in  the  building  con^pared 
to  the  revolution  which  took  place  in  the  fortunes  of  her  who 


TRE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


411 


once  beheld  a prospect  of  being  its  mistress.  The  earl  of 
Dunreath’s  eldest  daughter,  as  1 have  often  heard  from  many, 
was  a celebrated  beauty,  and  as  good  as  she  was  handsome, 
but  a malignant  step-mother  thwarted  her  happiness,  and  forced 
her  to  take  shelter  in  the  arms  of  a man  who  had  everything 
but  fortune  to  recommend  him — but,  in  wanting  that,  he  wanted 
everything  to  please  her  family.  After  some  years  of  distress, 
she  found  means  to  soften  the  heart  of  her  father ; but  here 
the  invidious  step-mother  again  interfered,  and  prevented  hei 
experiencing  any  good  elfects  from  his  returning  tenderness, 
and,  it  was  rumored,  by  a deep  and  iniquitous  scheme,  de- 
prived her  of  her  birthright.  Like  other  rumors,  however,  it 
gradually  died  away ; perhaps  from  Lady  Malvina  and  her  hus- 
band never  hearing  of  it,  and  none  but  them  had  a right  to  in- 
quire into  its  truth.  But  if  such  a scheme  was  really  contrived, 
woe  be  to  its  fabricator ; the  pride  and  pomp  of  wealth  can 
neither  alleviate  nor  recompense  the  stings  of  conscience.  Muck 
rather,’’  continued  Mrs.  Duncan,  laying  her  hands  upon  her 
children’s  heads  as  they  sat  at  her  feet, — much  rather  would 
I have  my  babes  wander  from  door  to  door,  to  beg  the  dole  of 
charity,  than  live  upon  the  birthright  of  the  orphan.  If  Lady 
Dunreath,  in  reality,  committed  the  crime  she  was  accused  of, 
she  met,  in  some  degree,  a punishment  for  it.  Soon  after  the 
Earks  death  she  betrayed  a partiality  for  a man  every  way  in- 
ferior to  her,  which  partiality,  people  have  not  scrupled  to  say, 
commenced  and  was  indulged  to  a criminal  degree  during  the 
lifetime  of  her  husband.  She  would  have  married  him,  had  not 
her  daughter  the  Marchioness  of  Roslin,  interfered.  Proud 
and  ambitious,  her  rage  at  the,  prospect  of  such  an  alliance, 
knew  no  bounds,  and,  seconded  by  the  marquis,  whose  disposi- 
tion was  congenial  to  her  own,  they  got  the  unfortunate  mother 
into  their  power,  and  hurried  her  off  to  a convent  in  FrancOo  I 
know  not  whether  she  is  yet  living;  indeed,  I believe  there  are 
few  either  know  or  care,  she  was  so  much  disliked  for  her 
haughty  disposition.  I have  sometimes  asked  my  aunt  about 
her,  but  she  would  never  gratify  my  curiosity.  She  has  been 
brought  up  in  the  family,  and  no  doubt  thinks  herself  bound  to 
conceal  whatever  they  choose.  She  lives  in  ease  and  plenty, 
and  is  absolute  mistress  of  the  few  domestics  that  reside  at  the 
Abbey.  But  of  those  domestics  I caution  you  in  time,  or  they 
will  be  apt  to  fill  your  head  with  frightful  stories  of  the  Abbey, 
which  sometimes,  if  one’s  spirits  are  weak,  in  spite  of  reason,  will 
make  an  impression  on  the  mind;  They  pretend  that  the  Earl 
of  Dunreath’s  first  wife  haunts  the  Abbey,  venting  the  most 


412 


THE  CHILD  RE  H OF  THE  ABBEY. 


piteous  moans,  which  they  ascribe  to  grief  for  the  unfortunate 
fate  of  her  daughter,  and  that  daughter’s  children  being  de- 
prived of  their  rightful  patrimony.  I honestly  confess,  when  at 
the  Abbey  a few  years  ago,  during  some  distresses  of  my  hus- 
band, I heard  strange  noises  one  vening  at  twilight  as  I walked 
in  a gallery.  I told  my  aunt  of  them,  and  she  was  quite  angry 
at  the  involuntary  terror  I expressed,  and  said  it  was  nothing 
but  the  wind  whistling  through  some  adjoining  galleries  which 
I heard.  But  this,  my  dear  Fanny,”  said  Mrs.  Duncan,  who 
on  account  of  her  children  had  continued  the  latter  part  of  her 
discourse  in  a low  voice,  ‘‘  is  all  between  ourselves  ; for  my 
aunt  declared  she  would  never  pardon  my  mentioning  my  ridic- 
ulous fears,  or  the  yet  more  ridiculous  fears  of  the  servants,  to 
any  human  being.'’ 

Amanda  listened  in  silence  to  Mrs.  Duncan’s  discourse, 
fearful  tha.  if  she  spoke  she  should  betray  the  emotions  it 
excited. 

They  at  last  entered  between  the  mountains  that  enclosed 
the  valley  on  w'  ‘ch  the  Abbey  stood.  The  scene  was  solemn 
and  solitary.  Every  prospect,  except  one  of  the  sea,  seen 
through  an  aperture  in  one  of  the  mountains,  was  excluded. 
Some  of  thes''  mountains  were  bare,  craggy,  and  projecting. 
Others  were  skirted  with  trees,  robed  with  vivid  green,  and 
crowned  with  white  and  yellow  furze.  Some  were  all  a wood 
of  intermingled  shades,  an  - others  covered  with  long  and  purple 
heath.  Various  streams  flowed  from  them  into  the  valley. 
Some  stole  gently  down  their  sides  in  silver  rills,  giving  beauty 
and  vigor  wherever  they  meandered.  Others  turnbled  from 
fragment  to  fragment,  with  a noise  not  undelightful  to  the  ear, 
and  form-ed  for  themselves  a deep  bed  in  the  valley,  over  which 
trees,  that  appeared  coeval  with  the  building,  bent  their  old 
and  leafy  heads. 

At  the  foot  of  what  to  the  rest  was  called  a gently  swelling 
hill  lay  the  remains  of  the  extensive  gardens  which  had  once 
given  the  luxuries  of  the  vegetable  world  cc  the  banquets  of  the 
Abbey  ; but  the  buildings  which  had  nursed  those  luxuries 
were  all  gone  to  decay,  and  the  gay  plantations  were  overrun 
with  the  progeny  of  neglect  and  sloth. 

The  Abbey  was  one  of  the  most  venerable  looking  buildings 
Amanda  had  ever  beheld  ; but  it  was  in  melancholy  grandeur 
she  now  saw  it — in  the  wane  of  its  days,  when  its  glory  was 
passed  away,  and  the  whole  pile  proclaimed  desertion  and  de- 
cay. She  saw  it  when,  to  use  the  beautiful  language  of  Hut- 
chinson, its  pride  was  brought  low,  when  its  rnagnificence  was 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


413 


sinking  in  the  dust,  when  tribulation  had  taken  the  seat  of 
hospitality,  and  solitude  reigned,  where  once  the  jocund  guest 
had  laughed  over  the  sparkling  bowl,  whilst  the  owls  sang 
nightly  their  strains  of  mel  ncholy  to  the  moonshine  that  slept 
upon  its  mould  ring  b ttlements. 

The  heart  of  Am  nda  was  full  of  the  fond  idea  of  her  parents, 
and  the  sigh  of  t nder  remembrance  stole  from  it.  “ How 
little  room,’  tho  g A she,  ‘‘  should  there  be  in  the  human  heart 
for  the  worldly  pride  which  so  often  dilates  it,  liable  as  all  things 
are  to  change  I the  distress  in  which  the  descendants  of  noble 
families  are  so  often  seen,  the  decline  of  such  families  them- 
selves, should  check  the  arrogant  presumption  with  which  so 
many  look  forw.  rd  to  having  their  greatness  and  prosperity 
perpetuated  through  every  branch  of  their  posterity. 

“ The  proud  possessors  of  this  Abbey,  surrounded  with  af- 
fluence, and  living  in  its  full  enjoyment,  never  perhaps  admitted 
the  idea  as  at  all  probable,  that  one  of  their  descendants  should 
ever  approach  the  seat  of  her  ancestors  without  that  pomp  and 
elegance  which  heretofore  distinguished  its  daughters.  Alas  ! 
one  now  approaches  it  neither  to  display  nor  contemplate  the 
pageantry  of  wealth,  but  meek  and  lowly ; not  to  receive  the 
smile  of  love,  or  the  embrace  of  relatives,  but  afflicted  and 
unknown,  glad  to  find  a shelter,  and  procure  the  bread  of 
dependence,  beneath  its  decaying  roof.” 

Mrs,  Duncan  happily  marked  not  Amanda’s  emotion  as  she 
gazed  upon  the  Abbey.  She  was  busily  employed  in  answering 
her  children’s  questions,  who  wanted  to  know  whether  she 
thought  they  would  be  able  to  climb  up  the  great  big  hills  they 
saw. 

The  carriage  at  last  stopped  before  the  Abbey.  Mrs.  Bruce 
was  already  at  the  door  to  receive  them.  She  was  a little, 
smart  old  woman,  and  welcomed  her  niece  and  the  children 
with  an  appearance  of  the  greatest  pleasure.  On  Amanda’s 
being  presented  to  her,  she  gazed  steadfastly  in  her  face  a few 
minutes,  and  then  exclaimed,  ‘‘  Well,  this  is  very  strange  ; 
though  I know  I could  never  have  seen  this  young  lady  before, 
her  face  is  quite  familiar  to  me.” 

The  hall  into  which  they  entered  was  large  and  gloomy, 
paved  with  black  marble,  and  supported  by  pillars,  through  which 
the  arched  doors  that  led  to  various  apartments  were  seen. 
Rude  implements,  such  as  the  Caledonians  had  formerly  used 
in  war  and  hunting,  were  ranged  along  the  walls.  Mrs.  Bruce 
conducted  them  into  a spacious  parlor,  terminated  by  an  ele- 
gant saloon.  This^  she  told  them,  had  once  been  the  banqueting- 


414 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.^ 


room.  The  furniture,  though  faded,  was  still  magnificent,  and 
the  windows,  though  still  in  the  gothic  style,  from  being  enlarged 
considerably  beyond  their  original  dimensions,  afforded  a most 
delightful  view  of  the  domain. 

“ Do  you  know,”  said  Mrs.  Duncan,  “ this  apartment,  though 
one  of  the  pleasantest  in  the  Abbey  in  point  of  situation,  al- 
ways makes  me  melancholy.  The  moment  I enter  it  I think  of 
the  entertainments  once  given  in  it,  and  then  its  present  va- 
cancy and  stillness  almost  instantly  reminds  me  that  those  who 
partook  of  these  entertainments  are  now  almost  all  humbled 
with  the  dust ! ” Her  aunt  laughed,  and  said,  “ she  was  very 
romantic.” 

The  solemnity  of  the  Abbey  was  well  calculated  to  heighten 
the  awe  which  stole  upon  the  spirit  of  Amanda  from  her  first 
view  of  it.  No  noise  was  heard  throughout  it,  except  the  hoarse 
creaking  of  the  massy  doors,  as  the  servants  passed  from  one 
room  to  another,  adjusting  Mrs.  Duncan’s  things,  and  preparing 
for  dinner.  Mrs.  Duncan  was  drawn  into  a corner  of  the  room 
by  her  aunt,  to  converse,  in  a low  voice,  about  family  affairs, 
and  the  children  were  rambling  about  the  hall,  wondering  and 
inquiring  about  everything  they  saw. 

Thus  left  to  herself,  a soft  languor  gradually  stole  over  the 
mind  of  Amanda,  which  was  almost  exhausted  from  the  emo- 
tions it  had  experienced.  The  murmuring  sound  of  water- 
falls, and  the  buzzing  of  the  flies  that  basked  in  the  sunny  rays 
which  darted  through  the  casements,  lulled  her  into  a kind  of 
pensive  tranquillity. 

‘‘Am  I really,”  she  asked  herself,  “in  the  seat  of  my  ances- 
tors.^ Am  I really  in  the  habitation  where  my  mother  was  born 
— where  her  irrevocable  vows  were  plighted  to  my  father  ? I 
am  ; and  oh  ! within  it  may  I at  last  find  an  asylum  from  the 
vices  and  dangers  of  the  world  ; within  it  may  my  sorrowing 
spirit  lose  its  agitation,  and  subdue,  if  not  its  affections,  at  least 
its  murmurs,  at  the  disappointment  of  those  affections.” 

The  appearance  of  dinner  interrupted  her.  She  made  exer- 
tions to  overcome  any  appearance  of  dejection,  and  the  con- 
versation, if  not  lively,  was  at  least  cheerful.  After  dinner 
Mrs.  Duncan,  who  had  been  informed  by  Amanda  of  her  pre- 
dilection for  old  buildings,  asked  her  aunt’s  permission  to  show 
her  the  Abbey.  Mrs.  Bruce  immediately  arose,  and  said  she 
would  have  that  pleasure  herself.  She  accordingly  led  the 
way.  Many  of  the  apartments  yet  displayed  the  sumptuous 
taste  of  those  who  had  furnished  them.  “ It  is  astonishing  to 
me/’  said  Mrs.  Duncan,  “ that  so  magnificent  a pile  as  this 


THE  CHILD  TEH  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


should  be  abandoned^  as  I may  say,  by  its  possessors.”  The 
Marquis  of  Roslin’s  castle  is  a more  modern  structure  than  this,” 
said  Mrs.  Bruce,  and  preferred  by  them  on  that  account.”' 
‘‘  So,  like  the  family  monument,”  rejoined  Mrs.  Duncan,  they 
are  merely  satisfied  with  permitting  this  to  stand,  as  it  may 
help  to  transmit  the  marchioness’s  name  to  posterity.”  ‘‘  How 
far  does  the  marquis  live  from  this  ? ” asked  Amanda.  ' About 
twelve  miles,”  replied  Mrs.  Bruce,  wh^  did  not  appear  pleased 
with  her  niece’s  conversation,  and  led  the  way  to  a Icng  gal- 
lery ornamented  with  portraits  of  the  family.  This  gallery 
Amanda  knew  well  by  description.  This  was  the  gallery  in 
which  her  father  had  stopped  to  contemplate  the  picture  of  her 
mother,  ar  cl  her  heart  throbbed  with  impatience  and  anxiety  to 
see  that 

Mr...  Bru"'  - , as  she  went  before  her,  told  her  the  names  of  the 
different  portraits.  She  suddenly  stoped  before  one.  “ That,” 
cried  she,  the  Marchioness  of  Roslin’s,  drawn  for  her  wher 
La^y  Augusta  Dunreath.”  Amanda  cast  her  eyes  upon  it,  and 
perceiveu  in  die  countenance  the  same  haughtiness  as  still  dis- 
tinguished the  marchioness.  She  looked  at  the  next  panel, 
and  found  :t  empty. 

‘‘  The  picture  of  Lady  Malvina  Dunreath  hung  there,”  said 
Mrs.  Bruce  ; “ but  after  her  unfortunate  marriage  it  was  taken 
down.”  “ And  destroyed,”  exclaimed  Amanda  mournfully. 
“ No ; but  it  was  thrown  into  the  old  chapel,  where,  with  the 
rest  of  the  lumber  (the  soul  of  Amanda  was  struck  at  these 
words),  it  has  been  locked  up  for  years.”  ‘‘  And  is  it  impossi- 
ble to  see  it  ” asked  Amanda.  “ Impossible,  indeed,”  replied 
Mrs.  Bruce.  The  chapel,  and  the  whole  eastern  part  of  the 
Abbey,  have  long  been  in  a ruinous  situation,  on  which  account 
it  has  been  locked  up.”  This  is  the  gallery,”  whispered  Mrs. 
Duncan,  “ in  which  I heard  the  strange  noises  ; but  not  a word 
of  them,  to  my  aunt.”  Amanda  could  scarcely  conceal  the  dis 
appointment  she  felt  at  finding  she  could  not  see  her  mother’s 
picture.  She  would  have  entreated  the  chapel  might  be  opened 
for  that  purpose,  had  she  not  feared  exciting  suspicions  by 
doing  so. 

They  returned  from  the  gallery  to  the  parlor  ; and  in  the 
course  of  conversation  Amanda  heard  many  interesting  anec^ 
dotes  of  her  ancestors  from  Mrs.  Bruce.  Her  mother  was  also 
mentioned,  and  Mrs.  Bruce,  by  dwelling  on  her  worth,  made 
amends,  in  some  degree,  to  Amanda  for  having  called  her  pic- 
ture lumber.  She  retired  to  her  chamber  with  her  mind  at  once 
iioftened  and  elevated  by  hearing  of  her  mother’s  virtues.  She 


4i6 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


called  upon  her  father’s  spirit,  upon  them  whose  kindred 
souls  were  reunited  in  heaven,  to  bless  their  child,  to 
strengthen,  to  support  her  in  the  thorny  path  marked  out 
for  her  to  take;  nor  to  cease  their  tutelary  care  till  she 
was  joined  to  them  by  Providence. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

Such  on  the  ground  the  fading  rose  we  see, 

By  some  rude  blast  torn  from  the  parent  tree^ 

The  daffodil  so  leans  his  languid  head, 

Newly  mown  down  upon  his  grassy  bed!  Leb, 

Experience  convinced  Amanda  that  the  change  in  her  sf^ 
nation  was,  if  possible,  more  pleasing  than  she  expected  it 
would  be.  Mrs.  Duncan  was  the  kindest  and  most  attentive  of 
friends.  Mrs.  Bruce  was  civil  and  obliging^  and  little 
pupils  were  docile  and  affectionate.  Could  she  have  avoided 
retrospection,  she  would  have  been  happy  the  remem" 
brance  of  past  events  was  too  deeply  impressed  upon  her  mind 
to  be  erased  ; it  mingled  in  the  visions  of  the  night,  in  the  avo- 
cations of  the  day,  and  in  the  meditations  of  her  lonely  hour^ 
forcing  from  her  heart  the  sighs  of  regret  and  tenderness.  Hei 
mornings  were  devoted  to  her  pupils,  and  .in  the  evenings  she 
sometimes  walked  with  Mrs.  Duncan,  sometimes  read  aiom/ 
whilst  she  and  her  aunt  were  working;  but  whenever  they  were 
engaged  in  chatting  about  family  affairs,  or  at  a game  of  piquet 
(which  was  often  the  case),  as  Mrs.  Bruce  neither  loved  walk' 
ing  nor  working,  she  always  took  that  opportunity  of  retiring 
from  the  room,  and  either  rambled  through  the  dark  and  intrl 
cate  windings  of  the  Abbey,  or  about  the  grounds  contiguous 
to  it.  She  sighed  whenever  she  passed  the  chapel  which  con* 
tained  the  picture  of  her  mother ; it  was  in  a ruinous  condi* 
tion,  but  a thick  foliage  of  ivy  partly  hid  while  it  proclaimed 
its  decay  ; the  windows  were  broken  in  many  places,  but  all  too 
high  to  admit  the  possibility  of  her  gaining  admittance  through 
them,  and  the  door  was  strongly  secured  by  massy  bars  of  iron, 
as  was  every  door  which  had  a communication  with  the  eastern 
part  of  the  Abbey.  A fortnight  passed  away  at  the  Abbey  without 
anything  happening  to  disturb  the  tranquillity  which  reigned  ir* 
it.  No  one  approached  it,  except  a few  of  the  wandering  chU 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


4^7 


dren  of  poverty,  and  its  inhabitants  seemed  perfectly  content 
with  their  seclusion  from  the  world.  Amanda,  by  Mrs.  Dun- 
can’s desire,  had  told  Mrs.  Dermot  to  direct  her  letters  to  a 
town  about  five  miles  from  the  Abbey ; thither  a man  went 
every  day,  but  constantly  returned  without  one  for  her. 

“ Why,”  she  asked  herself,  “ this  anxiety  for  a letter,  this 
disappointment  at  not  receiving  one,  when  I neither  expect  to 
hear  anything  interesting  or  agreeable  ? Mrs.  Dermot  has 
already  said  she  had  no  means  of  hearing  about  Lord  Morti- 
mer ; and,  even  if  she  had,  why  should  I desire  such  intelligence, 
torn  as  I am  from  him  forever  ? ” 

At  the  expiration  of  another  week  an  incident  happened, 
which  again  destroyed  the  composure  of  our  heroine.  Mrs. 
Bruce  one  morning  hastily  entered  the  room,  where  she  and  Mrs. 
Duncan  were  sitting  with  the  little  girls,  and  begged  they  would 
not  stir  from  it  till  she  had  told  them  to  do  so,  as  the  Marquis 
of  Roslin’s  steward  was  below  stairs,  and  if  he  knew  of  their 
residence  at  the  Abbey,  she  was  confident  he  would  reveal  it  to 
his  lord,  which  she  had  no  doubt  would  occasion  her  own  dis- 
mission from  it.  The  ladies  assured  her  they  would  not  leave 
the  apartment,  and  she  retired,  leaving  them  astonished  at  the 
agitation  she  betrayed. 

In  about  two  hours  she  returned,  and  said  she  came  to  re- 
lease them  from  confinement,  as  the  steward  had  departed. 

He  has  brought  unexpected  intelligence,”  said  she  ; “ the 
marquis  and  his  family  are  coming  down  to  the  castle.  The 
season  is  so  far  advanced,  I did  not  suppose  they  would  visit  it 
till  next  summer  ; I must,  therefore,”  continued  she,  addressing 
her  niece,  “ send  to  the  neighboring  town  to  procure  lodgings 
for  you  till  the  family  leave  the  country,  as  no  doubt  some  of 
them  will  come  to  the  Abbey,  and  to  find  you  in  it  would,  I can 
assure  you,  be  attended  with  unpleasant  consequences  to  me.” 

Mrs.  Duncan  begged  she  would  not  suffer  the  least  uneasi- 
ness on  her  account,  and  proposed  that  very  day  leaving  the 
Abbey.  “ No,”  Airs.  Bruce  replied,  “ there  is  no  necessity  for 
quitting  it  for  a few  days,  longer  ; the  family,”  continued  she, 
“ are  coming  down  upon  a joyful  occasion,  to  celebrate  the 
nuptials  of  the  marquis’s  daughter.  Lady  Euphrasia  Sutherland.” 
“ Lady  Euphrasia’s  nuptials  ! ” exclaimed  Amanda,  in  an  agi- 
tated voice,  and  forgetting  her  own  situation.  “ To  whom  is 
she  going  to  be  married  ? ” ‘‘  To  Lord  Mortimer,”  Mrs.  Bruce 

■feplied,  “ the  Earl  of  Cherbury’s  only  son  ; a very  fine  young 

man.  I am  told  the  affair  has  been  long  talked  of  ; but ” 

Here  she  was  interrupted  by  a deep  sigh,  or  rather  groan, 


4i8  the  children  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

irom  the  unfortunate  Amanda,  who  at  the  same  moment  fell 
back  in  her  chair,  pale  and  without  motion.  Mrs.  Duncan 
screamed  and  flew  to  her  assistance.  Mrs.  Bruce,  equally 
frightened,  though  less  affected,  ran  for  restoratives^,  and  the 
children  clasped  her  knees  and  wept.  From  her  pensive 
look  and  manner,  Mrs.  Duncan  suspected,  from  their  first  ac- 
quaintance, that  her  heart  had  experienced  a disappointment  of 
the  tenderest  nature.  Her  little  girls,  too,  had  told  her  that 
they  had  seen  Miss  Donald  crying  over  a picture.  Her  suspi- 
cions concerning  such  a disappointment  were  now  confirmed  by 
the  sudden  emotion  and  illness  of  Amanda.  But  she  had  all 
the  delicacy  which  belongs  to  true  sensibility,  and  determined 
never  to  let  Amanda  know  she  conjectured  the  source  of  her 
sorrows,  certain  as  she  was  that  they  had  never  originated  from 
any  misconduct. 

Mrs.  Bruce’s  drops  restored  Amanda’s  senses  ; but  she  felt 
weak  and  trembling,  and  begged  she  might  be  supported  to  her 
room,  to  lie  down  on  the  bed.  Mrs.  Bruce  and  Mrs.  Duncan 
accordingly  led  her  to  it.  The  former  almost  immediately  re- 
tired, and  the  tears  of  Amanda  now  burst  forth.  She  wept  a 
long  time  without  intermission  ; and  as  soon  as  her  sobs  would 
permit  her  to  speak,  begged  Mrs.  Duncan  to  leave  her  to  her- 
self. Mrs.  Duncan  knew  too  well  the  luxury  of  secret  grief  to 
deny  her  the  enjoyment  of  so  melancholy  a feast,  and  directly 
withdrew. 

The  wretched  Amanda  then  asked  herself,  if  she  had  not 
known  before  that  the  sacrifice  she  made  Lord  Cherbury  would 
lead  to  the  event  she  now  regretted  ? It  was  true  she  did 
know  it.  But  whenever  an  idea  of  its  taking  place  occurred, 
she  had  so  sedulously  driven  it  from  her  mind,  that  she  at  last 
almost  ceased  to  think  about  it.  Were  he  to  be  united  to  any 
other  woman  than  Lady  Euphrasia,  she  thought  she  would  not 
be  so  wretched.  “ Oh,  Mortimer  ! beloved  of  my  soul ! ” she 
cried,  “ were  you  going  to  be  united  to  a woman  sensible  of 
your  worth,  and  worthy  of  your  noble  heart,  in  the  knowledge 
of  your  happiness  my  misery  would  be  lessened.  But  what  a 
union  of  misery  must  minds  so  uncongenial  as  yours  and  Lady 
Euphrasia’s  form  ! Alas  ! am  I not  wretched  enough  in  con- 
templating my  own  prospect  of  unhappiness,  but  that  yours, 
also,  must  be  obtruded  upon  me  ? Yet  perhaps,”  she  continued, 
the  evils  that  I dread  on  Lord  Mortimer’s  account  may  be 
averted.  Oh,  that  they  may  ! ” said  she,  with  fervor,  and  rais- 
ing her  hands  and  eyes.  “ Soften,  gracious  Heaven ! soften  the 
flinty  nature  of  Lady  Euphrasia.  Oh,  render  her  sensible  ot 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


419 


the  blessing  you  bestow  in  giving  her  Lord  Mortimer  ! and  ren- 
der her  not  only  capable  of  inspiring,  but  of  feeling  tenderness. 
May  she  prove  to  him  the  tender  friend,  the  faithful,  the  affec- 
tionate companion  the  unfortunate  Amanda  would  have  been  1 
Oh,  may  she  build  her  happiness  on  his ! and  may  his  be 
great  as  his  virtues — extensive  as  his  charities  ! and  may  the 
knowledge  of  it  soothe  my  afflicted  heart ! 

Her  spirits  were  a little  elevated  by  the  fervency  of  her  lan- 
guage. But  it  was  a transient  elevation.  The  flush  it  spread 
over  her  cheeks  soon  died  away,  and  her  tears  again  began  to 
flow.  ‘‘  Alas  ] she  cried,  “ in  a few  days  it  will  be  criminal  to 
think  of  Lord  Mortimer  as  I have  hitherto  done ; and  I shall 
blush,”  continued  she,  gazing  at  his  picture,  ‘To  contemplate 
this  dear  shadow,  when  I reflect  its  original  is  the  husband  of 
Lady  Euphrasia.” 

The  dinner-bell  now  sounded  through  the  Abbey,  and  almost 
at  the  same  minute  she  heard  a tap  at  her  door.  She  started, 
and  reflected  for  the  first  time  that  her  deep  dejection  would 
naturally  excite  suspicions  as  to  its  source,  if  longer  indulged. 
Shocked  at  the  idea  of  incurring  them,  she  hastily  wiped  away 
her  tears,  and  opening  the  door,  found  her  friend  Mrs.  Duncan 
at  it,  who  begged  she  would  come  down  to  dinner.  Amanda 
did  not  refuse,  but  was  obliged  to  use  the  supporting  arm  of  her 
friend  to  reach  the  parlor.  She  could  not  eat.  With  difficulty 
could  she  restrain  her  tears,  or  answer  the  inquiries  Mrs.  Bruce 
made,  after  what  she  supposed  a mere  bodily  indisposition. 
She  forced  herself,  however,  to  continue  in  the  parlor  till  after 
tea,  when  cards  being  produced,  she  had  an  opportunity  of 
going  out,  and  indulging  her  anguish  without  fear  of  interrup- 
tion. Unable,  however,  to  walk  far,  she  repaired  to  the  old 
chapel,  and  sitting  down  by  it,  leaned  her  head  against  its  de- 
cayed and  ivy-covered  walls.  She  had  scarcely  sat  in  this  man- 
ner a minute,  when  the  stones  gave  way,  with  a noise  which 
terrified  her,  and  she  would  have  fallen  backwards  had  she  not 
caught  at  some  projecting  wood.  She  hastily  rose,  and  found 
that  the  ivy  entirely  concealed  the  breach.  She  examined  it, 
however,  and  perceived  it  large  enough  to  admit  her  into  the 
chapel.  A sudden  pleasure  pervaded  her  heart  at  the  idea  of 
being  able  to  enter  it,  and  examine  the  picture  she  had  so  long 
wished  to  behold.  There  was  nothing  to  oppose  her  entrance 
but  the  ivy.  This  she  parted  with  difficulty,  but  so  as  not  to 
strip  it  from  the  wall,  and  after  stepping  over  the  fallen  rubbish, 
she  found  herself  in  the  body  of  the  chapel.  The  silent  hour 
of  twilight  v/as  now  advanced,  but  the  moonbeams  that  darted 


420 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEV, 


through  the  broken  roof  prevented  the  chapel  from  being  in- 
volved in  utter  darkness.  Already  had  the  owls  begun  their 
strains  of  melancholy  on  its  mouldering  pillars,  while  the  ravens 
croaked  amongst  tho  luxuriant  trees  that  rustled  round  it. 
Dusty  and  moth-eaten  banners  were  suspended  from  the  walls, 
and  rusty  casques,  shields,  and  spears  were  promiscuously 
heaped  together,  the  useless  armor  of  those  over  whose  remains 
Amanda  now  trod  with  a light  and  trembling  foot.  She  looked 
for  the  picture,  and  perceived  one  reclined  against  the  m^all 
near  the  altar.  She  wiped  away  the  dust,  and  perceived  this 
was  indeed  the  one  she  sought,  tho  one  her  father  had  so  c:cten 
described  to  her.  The  light  was  too  imperfect  for  ber  dis- 
tinguish the  features,  and  she  resolved,  if  possible,  to  come  at 
an  earlier  hour  the  ensuing  evening.  She  felt  impressed  with 
reverential  awe  as  she  stood  before  it  She  recollected  the 
pathetic  manner  in  which  her  father  had  mentioned  his  emo- 
tions as  he  gazed  upon  it,  and  her  tears  began  to  flow  for  the 
disastrous  fate  of  her  parents  and  her  own.  She  sunk  in  an 
agony  of  grief,  which  mournful  remembrances  and  present 
calamities  excited,  upon  the  steps  of  that  altar,  where  Fitz- 
alan  and  Malvina  had  plighted  their  irrevocable  vows.  She 
leaned  her  arm  on  the  rails,  but  her  face  was  turned  to  the  pic' 
ture,  as  if  it  could  see  and  would  pity  her  distress.  She  re- 
mained in  this  situation  till  the  striking  of  the  Abbey  clock 
warned  her  to  depart.  In  going  towards  the  entrance  she  per- 
ceived a small  arched  door  at  the  opposite  side.  As  the  apart- 
ments Lady  Malvina  had  occupied  were  in  this  part  of  the 
building,  she  resolved  on  visiting  them  before  she  left  the 
Abbey,  lest  the  breach  in  the  wall  should  be  discovered  ere  she 
returned  to  it.  She  returned  to  the  parlor  ere  the  ladies  had 
finished  their  game  of  piquet,  and  the  next  evening,  immedi- 
ately after  tea,  repaired  to  the  chapel,  leaving  them  engaged 
as  usual  at  cards^  She  stood  a few  minutes  before  it,  to  see 
if  any  one  was  near ; but  perceiving  no  object  she  again 
entered  it.  She  had  now  sufficient  light  to  examine  the  picture  ; 
though  faded  by  the  damp,  it  yet  retained  that  loveliness  for 
which  its  original  was  so  admired,  and  which  Amanda  had  so 
often  heard  eloquently  described  by  her  father.  She  con- 
templated it  with  awe  and  pity.  Her  heart  swelled  with  the 
emotions  it  excited,  and  gave  way  to  its  feelings  in  tears.  To 
weep  before  the  Jxhade  of  her  mother,  seemed  to  assuage  the 
bitterness  of  those  feelings.  She  pronounced  the  name  of  her 
parents,  she  called  herself  their  wretched  orphan,  a stranger, 
and  a dependant  in  the  mansion  of  her  ancestors.  She  pro- 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


4^1 


nouncecl  the  name  of  Lord  Mortimer  in  the  impassioned  accents 
of  tenderness  and  distress.  As  she  thus  indulged  the  sorrows 
of  her  soul  in  tears  and  lamentations,  she  suddenly  heard  a 
faint  noise,  like  an  advancing  footstep  near  her.  She  started 
up,  for  she  had  been  kneeling  before  her  mother’s  picture, 
terrified  lest  her  visit  to  the  chapel  had  been  discovered,  which 
she  knew,  if  the  case,  would  mortally  disoblige  Mrs.  Bruce, 
though  why  she  should  be  so  averse  to  any  one’s  visiting  it  she 
could  not  conceive.  She  listened  in  trembling  anxiety  a few 
minutes.  All  again  was  still,  and  she  returned  to  the  parlor, 
where  she  found  the  ladies  as  she  had  left  them,  determined, 
notwithstanding  her  late  fright,  to  return  the  next  evening 
to  the  chapel,  and  visit  the  apartments  that  were  her  mother’s. 


CHAPTER  XLVL 

**  What  beckoning  ghost  along  the  moonlight  shade# 

Invites  my  steps  ? ” — Pope. 

The  next  evening  Amanda’s  patience  was  put  to  the  test  \ 
for  after  tea  Mrs.  Duncan  proposed  a walk,  which  seemed  to 
cut  off  hei  hopes  of  visiting  the  chapel  that  evening  ; but  after 
strolling  some  time  about  the  valley,  complaisance  for  her  aunt 
made  Mrs.  Duncan  return  to  the  parlor,  where  she  was  expected 
to  take  her  usual  hand  at  piquet.  The  hour  was  late,  and  the 
sky  so  gloomy,  that  the  moon,  though  at  its  full,  could  scarcely 
penetrate  the  darkness ; notwithstanding  all  this,  Amanda 
resolved  on  going  to  the  chapel,  considering  this,  in  all  prob- 
ability, the  only  opportunity  she  would  have  of  visiting  the 
apartments  her  mother  had  occupied  (which  she  had  an  irrepres- 
sible desire  to  enter),  as  in  two  days  she  was  to  accompany  Mrs. 
Duncan  to  lodgings  in  the  neighboring  town ; she  accordingly 
said  she  had  a mind  to  walk  a little  longer.  Mrs.  Bruce  bade 
her  beware  of  catching  cold,  and  Mrs.  Duncan  said  she  was  too 
fond  of  solitary  rambles  ; but  no  opposition  being  made  to  her 
intention,  she  hurried  to  the  chapel,  and,  entering  the  little 
arched  door,  found  herself  in  a lofty  hall,  in  the  centre  of  which 
was  a grand  staircase,  the  whole  enlightened  by  a large  gothic 
window  at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  She  ascended  them  with 
trepidation,  for  her  footsteps  produced  a hollow  echo,  which 


422 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


added  something  awful  to  the  gloom  that  enveloped  her.  On 
gaining  the  top  of  the  stairs  she  saw  two  large  folding  doors  on 
either  side,  both  closed.  She  knew  the  direction  to  take,  and, 
by  a small  exertion  of  strength,  pulled  the  one  on  the  left  side 
open,  and  perceived  a long  gallery,  which  she  knew  was  ter- 
minated by  the  apartments  she  wanted  to  visit.  Its  almost 
total  darkness,  however,  nearly  conquered  her  wish,  and  shook 
her  resolution  of  proceeding ; but  ashamed,  even  to  herself,  to 
give  way  to  superstitious  fears,  or  turn  back  without  gratifying 
her  inclination  after  going  so  far,  she  advanced  into  the  gallery, 
though  with  a trembling  step,  and  as  she  let  the  door  out  of 
her  hand,  it  shut  to  with  a violence  that  shook  the  whole  building. 
The  gallery  on  one  side  had  a row  of  arched  doors,  and  on  the 
other  an  equal  number  of  windows  ; but  so  small,  and  placed 
so  high,  as  scarcely  to  admit  a ray  of  light.  Amanda’s  heart 
began  to  beat  with  unusual  quickness,  and  she  thought  she 
should  never  reach  the  end  of  the  gallery.  She  at  last  came  to 
a door,  it  was  closed,  not  fastened  ; she  pushed  it  gently  open, 
and  could  just  discern  a spacious  room.  This,  she  supposed, 
had  been  her  mother’s  dressing-room.  The  moonbeams,  as  if 
to  aid  her  wish  of  examining  it,  suddenly  darted  through  the 
casements.  Cheered  by  the  unexpected  light,  she  advanced 
into  the  room  ; at  the  upper  end  of  it  something  in  white 
attracted  her  notice.  She  concluded  it  to  be  the  portrait  of 
Lady  Malvina’s  mother,  which  she  had  been  informed  hung  in 
this  room.  She  went  up  to  examine  it ; but  her  horror  may  be 
better  conceived  than  described,  when  she  found  herself  not  by 
a picture,  but  by  the  real  form  of  a woman,  with  a death-like 
countenance  ! She  screamed  wildly  at  the  terrifying  spectre, 
for  such  she  believed  it  to  be,  and  quick  as  lightning  flew  from 
the  room.  Again  was  the  moon  obscured  by  a cloud,  and  she 
involved  in  utter  darkness.  She  ran  with  such  violence,  that, 
as  she  reached  the  door  at  the  end  of  the  gallery,  she  fell 
against  it.  Extremely  hurt,  she  had  not  power  to  move  for  a 
few  minutes  ; but  while  she  involuntarily  paused,  she  heard 
approaching  footsteps.  Wild  with  terror,  she  instantly  recovered 
her  faculties,  and  attempted  opening  it ; but  it  resisted  all  her 
efforts.  “ Protect  me.  Heaven ! ” she  exclaimed,  and  at  the 
moment  felt  an  icy  hand  upon  hers  ! Her  senses  instantly 
receded,  and  she  sunk  to  the  floor.  When  she  recovered  from 
her  insensibility  she  perceived  a glimmering  light  around  her. 
She  opened  her  eyes  with  fearfulness,  but  no  object  appeared,- 
and  to  her  great  joy  she  saw  the  door  standing  open,  and  found 
that  the  light  proceeded  from  the  large  window.  She  instantly 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


423 


rose,  and  descended  the  staircase  with  as  much  haste  as  her 
trembling  limbs  could  make  ; but  again,  what  was  her  horror 
when,  on  entering  the  chapel,  the  first  object  she  beheld  was 
the  same  that  had  already  alarmed  her  so  much  ! She  made  a 
spring  to  escape  through  the  entrance,  but  the  apparition,  with 
a rapidity  equal  to  her  own,  glided  before  her,  and  with  a hollow 
voice,  as  she  waved  an  emaciated  hand,  exclaimed,  “ Forbear 
to  goF 

A deadly  faintness  again  came  over  Amanda ; she  sunk 
upon  a broken  seat,  and  put  her  hand  over  her  eyes  to  shut  out 
the  frightful  vision. 

“ Lose,’’  continued  the  figure,  in  a hollow  voice,  ‘‘  lose  your 
superstitious  fears,  and  in  me  behold  not  an  airy  inhabitant  of 
the  other  world,  but  a sinful,  sorrowing,  and  repentant  woman.” 

The  terrors  of  Amanda  gave  way  to  this  unexpected  address ; 
but  her  surprise  was  equal  to  what  these  terrors  had  been  ; 
she  withdrew  her  hand,  and  gazed  attentively  on  the  form  before 
her. 

“ If  my  eye,  if  my  ear  deceives  me  not,”  it  continued,  ‘‘you 
are  a descendant  of  the  Dunreath  family.  I heard  you  last 
night,  when  you  imagined  no  being  near,  call  yourself  the  un- 
fortunate orphan  of  Lady  Malvina  Fitzalan.”  “ I am  indeed 
her  child,”  replied  Amanda.  “ Tell  me,  then,  by  what  means 
you  have  been  brought  hither.  You  called  yourself  a stranger, 
and  a dependant  in  the  house  of  your  ancestors.”  “ I am  both,” 
said  Amanda  ; “ my  real  name  is  concealed,  from  circumstances 
peculiarly  distressing,  and  I have  been  brought  to  the  Abbey 
as  an  instructress  to  two  children  related  to  the  person  who 
takes  care  of  it.”  “ My  prayers  at  length,”  exclaimed  the 
ghastly  figure,  raising  her  hollow  eyes  and  emaciated  hands, — 
“ my  prayers  have  reached  the  Throne  of  Mercy,  and,  as  a proof 
that  my  repentance  is  accepted,  power  is  given  me  to  make 
reparation  for  the  injuries  I have  committed.  Oh  ! thou,”  she 
cried,  turning  to  Amanda,  “ whose  form  revives  in  my  remem- 
brance  the  youth  and  beauty  blasted  by  my  means,  if  thy  mind 
as  well  as  face,  resembles  Lady  Malvina’s,  thou  wilt,  in  pity  to 
my  sufferings,  forbear  to  reproach  my  crimes.  In  me,”  she 
continued,  “ you  behold  the  guilty  but  contrite  widow  of  the 
Earl  of  Dunreath.” 

Amanda  started.  “ Oh,  gracious  Heaven  ! ” she  exclaimed, 
“can  this  be  possible  ? ” “ Have  you  not  been  taught  to  ex 

ecrate  my  name  ? ” asked  the  unhappy  woman.  “ Oh  ! no,” 
replied  Amanda.  “ No,”  replied  Lady  Dunreath,  “because  your 
mother  was  an  angel.  But  did  she  not  leave  a son  ? ” “ Yes,” 


424 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


said  Amanda.  And  does  he  live  ? ‘‘Alas!  Idonotknow/^ 
replied  Amanda,  melting  into  tears  ; “ distress  separated  us, 
and  he  is  not  more  ignorant  of  my  destiny  than  I am  of  his.’’ 
“ It  is  I,”  exclaimed  Lady  Dunreath,  “ have  been  the  cause  of 
this  distress.  It  is  I,  sweet  and  sainted  Malvina,  have  been 
the  cause  of  calamity  to  your  children ; but,  blessed  be  the 
wonder-working  hand  of  Providence,”  she  continued,  “which 
has  given  me  an  opportunity  of  making  some  amends  for  my 
cruelty  and  injustice.  But,”  she  proceeded,  “ as  I know  the 
chance  which  led  you  to  the  chapel,  I dread  to  detain  you  longer, 
lest  it  should  lead  to  a discovery.  Was  it  known  that  you  saw 
me,  all  my  intentions  would  be  defeated.  Be  secret,  then,  I 
conjure  you,  more  on  your  account  than  my  own,  and  let  not 
Mrs.  Bruce  have  the  smallest  intimation  of  what  has  passed  \ 
but  return  to-morrow  night,  and  you  shall  receive  from  me 
a sacred  deposit,  which  will,  if  affluence  can  do  it,  render  you 
completely  happy.  In  the  mean  time,  do  you  throw  upon 
paper  a brief  account  of  your  life,  that  I may  know  the 
incidents  which  so  providentially  brought  you  to  the 
Abbey.”  Amanda  promised  to  obey  her  in  every  respect,  and 
the  unfortunate  woman,  unable  longer  to  speak,  kissed  her 
hand,  and  retired  through  the  little  arched  door.  Amanda 
left  the  chapel,  and,  full  of  wonder,  pity,  and  expectation, 
moved  mechanically  to  the  parlor.  Mrs.  Bruce  and  Mrs. 
Duncan  had  just  risen  from  cards,  and  both  were  instantly 
struck  with  her  pallid  and  disordered  looks.  They  inquired  if 
she  was  ill.  Their  inquiries  roused  her  from  a deep  reverie. 
She  recollected  the  danger  of  exciting  suspicions,  and  replied, 
“ she  was  only  fatigued  with  walking,  and  begged  leave  to 
retire  to  her  chamber.”  Mrs.  Duncan  attended  her  to  it,  and 
would  have  sat  with  her  till  she  saw  her  in  bed,  had  Amanda 
allowed  ; but  it  was  not  her  intention,  indeed,  to  go  to  bed  for 
some  time.  When  left  to  herself,  the  surprising  and  interest- 
ing discovery  she  had  made  had  so  agitated  her  that  she  could 
scarcely  compose  herself  enough  to  take  up  a pen  to  narrate 
the  particulars  of  her  life,  as  Lady  Dunreath  had  requested. 
She  sketched  them  in  a brief  yet  hasty  manner,  sufficiently 
strong,  however,  to  interest  the  feelings  of  a sympathetic  heart; 
the  tender  and  peculiar  sorrows  of  her  own  she  omitted  ; her 
life  was  represented  sufficiently  calamitous,  without  mentioning 
the  incurable  sorrow  which  disappointed  love  had  entailed 
upon  it.  She  was  glad  she  had  executed  her  task  with  haste, 
as  Mrs.  Duncan  called  upon  her  in  the  course  of  the  next  day 
to  assist  in  packing  for  their  removal  to  the  neighboring  town. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


425 


The  evening  was  far  advanced  ere  she  had  an  opportunity  of 
repairing  to  the  chapel,  where  she  found  the  unfortunate  Lady 
Dunreath  resting  in  an  attitude  of  deep  despondence,  against 
the  rails  of  the  altar. 

Her  pale  and  woe-worn  countenance — her  emaciated  form 
— her  solitary  situation — all  inspired  Amanda  with  the  tenderest 
compassion,  and  she  dropped  a tear  upon  the  cold  and  withered 
hand  which  was  extended  to  hers,  as  she  approached.  “ I 
merit  not  the  tear  of  pity,’'  said  the  unhappy  woman,  “ yet  it 
casts  a gleam  of  comfort  on  my  heart  to  meet  with  a being  who 
feels  for  its  sorrows.  But  the  moments  are  precious.”  She 
then  led  Amanda  to  the  altar,  and,  stooping  down,  desired  her 
assistance  in  removing  a small  marble  flag  beneath  it.  This 
being  effected,  with  difficulty,  Amanda  perceived  an  iron  box, 
which  she  also  assisted  in  raising.  Lady  Dunreath  then  took 
a key  from  her  bosom,  with  which  she  opened  it,  and  took 
from  thence  a sealed  paper.  ‘‘  Receive,”  said  she,  presenting 
it  to  Amanda,  “ receive  the  will  of  your  grandfather,  a sacred 
deposit,  intrusted  to  your  care  for  your  brother,  the  rightful 
heir  of  the  Earl  of  Dunreath.  Oh ! may  its  restoration,  and 
my  sincere  repentance,  atone  for  its  long  detention  and  con- 
cealment. Oh ! may  the  fortune  it  will  bestow  upon  you,  as 
well  as  your  brother,  be  productive  to  both  of  the  purest  happi- 
ness.” Trembling  with  joyful  surprise,  Amanda  received  the 
paper.  “ Gracious  Heaven  ! ” exclaimed  she,  “ is  it  possible  ? 
Do  I really  hold  the  will  of  my  grandfather — a will  which  will 
entitle  my  brother  to  affluence  ? Oh  ! Providence,  how  mys- 
terious  are  thy  ways  ! Oh  ! Oscar,  beloved  of  my  heart,”  she 
continued,  forgetting  at  that  moment  every  consideration  of 
self,  “ could  thy  sister  have  possibly  foreseen  her  sorrows  would 
have  led  to  such  a discovery,  half  their  bitterness  would  have 
been  allayed.  Yes,  my  father,  one  of  thy  children  may  at 
least  be  happy,  and  in  witnessing  that  happiness  the  other  will 
find  a mitigation  of  misery.”  Tears  burst  from  her  as  sl:«^ 
spoke,  and  relieved  the  strong  emotions  that  swelled  her  hearty 
almost  to  bursting. 

“ Oh  ! talk  not  of  your  misery,”  said  Lady  Dunreath,  with 
a convulsive  sigh,  ‘‘  lest  you  drive  me  to  despair.  Forever 
must  I accuse  myself  of  being  the  real  source  of  calamity 
to  Lady  Malvina  and  her  children.”  ‘‘  Excuse  me,”  cried 
Amanda,  wiping  her  eyes,  “ I should  be  ungrateful  to  Heaven 
and  to  you  if  I dwelt  upon  my  sorrows  ; but  let  me  not  neglect 
this  opportunity,”  she  continued,  ‘‘  of  inquiring  if  there  is  any 
way  in  which  I can  possibly  serve  you.  Is  there  no  friend 


426  THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

whom  I could  apply  in  your  name,  to  have  you  released  from 
this  cruel  and  unjustifiable  confinement?  ’’  “ No,”  said  Lady 

Dunreath,  no  such  friend  exists.  When  I had  the  power  to 
do  so,  I never  conciliated  friendship  ; and  if  I am  still  remem 
bered  in  the  world,  it  is  only  with  contempt  and  abhorrence. 
The  laws  of  my  country  would  certainly  liberate  me  at  once ; 
but  if  things  turn  out  as  I expect,  there  will  be  no  occasion  ior 
an  application  to  them,  and  any  step  of  that  kind  at  present 
might  be  attended  with  the  most  unpleasant  consequences. 
Your  future  prosperity,  my  present  safety,  all  depend  on 
secrecy  for  a short  period.  In  this  paper  (drawing  one  from 
her  pocket  and  presenting  it  to  Amanda)  I have  explained  my 
reason  for  desiring  such  secrecy.”  Amanda  put  it  with  the 
will  into  her  bosom,  and  gave  in  return  the  little  narrative  she 
had  sketched.  They  both  assisted  in  replacing  the  box  and 
dag,  and  then  seated  themselves  on  the  steps  of  the  altar. 
Amanda  informed  Lady  Dunreath  of  her  intended  departure 
the  next  day  from  the  Abbey,  and  the  occasion  of  it.  Lady 
Dunreath  expressed  the  utmost  impatience  to  have  everything 
put  in  a proper  train  for  the  avowal  of  the  will,  declaring  that 
the  sight  of  the  rightful  heir  in  possession  of  the  Abbey  would 
calm  the  agitations  of  a spirit  which,  she  believed,  would  soon 
forsake  its  earthly  habitation.  Tears  of  compassion  fell  from 
Amanda  at  these  words,  and  she  shuddered  to  think  that  the 
unfortunate  woman  might  die  abandoned,  and  bereft  of  com- 
fort. Again  she  urged  her  to  think  of  some  expedient  for  pro- 
curing immediate  liberty,  and  again  Lady  Dunreath  assured 
her  it  was  impossible.  Absorbed  in  a kind  of  sympathetic 
melancholy,  they  forgot  the  danger  of  delay  till  the  Abbey 
clock  chimed  half  an  hour  past  ten — which  was  later  than  Mrs. 
Bruce’s  usual  hour  of  supper — startled  and  alarmed  them  both. 

Go ! go  f ” cried  Lady  Dunreath,  with  a wild  expression  of 
fear  ; go  ! or  we  are  undone  ! ” Amanda  pressed  her  hand 
in  silence,  and,  trembling,  departed  from  the  chapel.  She 
stopped  at  the  outside  to  listen  ; for  by  her  ear  alone  could 
she  now  receive  any  intimation  of  danger,  as  the  night  was  too 
dark  to  permit  any  object  to  be  discerned  ; but  the  breeze 
sighing  amongst  the  trees  of  the  valley,  and  the  melanclioly 
murmur  of  waterfalls,  were  the  only  sounds  she  heard.  She 
groped  along  the  walls  of  the  chapel  to  keep  in  the  path,  which 
wound  from  it  to  the  entrance  of  the  Abbey,  and  in  doing  so 
passed  her  hand  over  the  cold  face  of  a human  being.  Ter- 
rified, an  involuntary  scream  burst  from  her,  and  she  faintly 
articulated:  ^‘Defend  me,  Heaven  I ” In  the  next  moment 


TBE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


427 


she  was  seized  round  the  waist,  and  her  senses  were  receding, 
when  Mrs.  Duncan’s  voice  recalled  them.  She  apologized  to 
Amanda  for  giving  her  such  a fright ; but  said,  “ that  her  un- 
easiness was  so  great  at  her  long  absence  that,  attended  by  a 
servant,  she  had  come  in  quest  of  her.” 

Mrs.  Duncan’s  voice  relieved  Amanda  from  the  horror  of 
thinking  she  had  met  with  a person  who  would  insult  her  ; but 
it  had  given  rise  to  a new  alarm.  She  feared  she  had  been 
traced  to  the  chapel,  that  her  discourse  with  Lady  Dunreath 
had  been  overheard,  and  of  course  the  secret  of  the  will  dis- 
covered, and  that  Mrs.  Duncan,  amiable  as  she  was,  might 
sacrifice  friendship  to  interest  and  consanguinity.  This  idea 
overwhelmed  her  with  anguish ; her  deep  and  heavy  sighs,  her 
violent  trembling,  alarmed  Mrs.  Duncan,  who  hastily  called  the 
servant  to  assist  her  in  supporting  Amanda  home  ; drops  were 
then  administered,  but  they  would  have  wanted  their  usual 
efficacy  with  the  poor  night  wanderer  had  she  not  soon  been 
convinced  by  Mrs.  Duncan’s  manner  she  had  not  made  the 
dreaded  discovery. 

Amanda  would  have  retired  to  her  chamber  before  supper, 
but  that  she  feared  distressing  Mrs.  Duncan  by  doing  so,  who 
would  have  imputed  her  indisposition  to  her  fright.  She  ac- 
cordingly remained  in  the  parlor,  but  with  a mind  so  occupied 
by  the  interesting  events  of  the  evening,  that  she  soon  forgot 
the  purpose  for  which  she  sat  down  to  table,  and  neither  heeded 
what  was  doing  or  saying.  From  this  reverie  she  was  suddenly 
roused  by  the  sound  of  a name  forever  dear  and  precious, 
which  in  a moment  had  power  to  recall  her  wandering  ideas. 
She  raised  her  eyes,  and  with  a sad  intenseness  fixed  them  on 
Mrs.  Bruce,  who  continued  to  talk  of  the  approaching  nuptials 
of  Lord  Mortimer.  Tears  now  fell  from  Amanda  in  spite  of 
her  efforts  to  restrain  them,  and  while  drooping  her  head  to 
wipe  them  away,  she  caught  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Duncan  fastened 
on  her  with  an  expression  of  mingled  pity  and  curiosity.  A 
deep  crimson  suffused  the  face  of  Amanda,  at  the  conscious- 
ness of  having  betrayed  the  secret  of  her  heart ; but  her  com 
fusion  was  inferior  to  her  grief,  and  the  rich  suffusion  of  the 
one  soon  gave  place  to  the  deadly  hue  of  the  other.  “ Ah  ! ” 
thought  she,  ‘‘what  is  now  the  acquisition  of  wealth,  when 
happiness  is  beyond  my  reach  ! ” Yet  scarcely  had  she  con- 
ceived the  thought  ere  she  wished  it  buried  in  oblivion.  “ Is 
the  comfort  of  independence,  the  power  of  dispensing  happi- 
ness to  others,  nothing?”  she  asked  herself.  “ Do  they  not 
merit  g^'a.titude  c£  the  most  pure  thankfulness,  of  the  most  fer- 


428  the  children  of  the  abbey.  ' 

vent  nature  to  Providence  ? They  do/’  she  cried,  and  paid 
them  at  the  moment  in  the  silence  of  her  heart.  It  was  late 
ere  the  ladies  separated  for  the  night,  and  as  soon  as  Amanda 
had  secured  the  door  of  her  chamber,  she  drew  from  her  bosom 
the  papers  so  carefully  deposited  there,  and  sat  down  to  peruse 
the  narrative  of  Lady  Dunreath 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

••  For  true  repentance  never  comes  too  late  ; 

As  soon  as  born  she  makes  herself  a shroud. 

The  weeping  mantle  of  a fleecy  cloud. 

And  swift  as  thought  her  airy  journey  takes, 

Her  hand  Heaven’s  azure  gate  with  trembling  strikes. 

The  stars  do  with  amazement  on  her  look : 

She  tells  her  story  in  so  sad  a tone, 

That  angels  start  from  bliss,  and  give  a groan.”— LeB. 

Narrative  of  Lady  Dunreath. 

Adoring  the  Power  who  has  given  me  means  of  making 
.restitution  for  my  injustice,  I take  up  my  pen  to  disclose  to 
your  view,  oh  ! lovely  orphan  of  the  injured  Malvina,  the  frail- 
ties of  a heart  which  has  long  been  tortured  with  the  retrospect 
of  past  and  the  pressure  of  present  evil.  Convinced,  as  I have 
already  said,  that  if  your  mind,  as  well  as  form,  resembles  your 
mother’s,  you  will,  while  you  condemn  the  sinner,  commiserate 
the  penitent,  and,  touched  by  that  penitence,  offer  up  a prayer 
to  Heaven  (and  the  prayers  of  innocence  are  ever  availing) 
for  its  forgiveness  unto  me.  Many  years  are  now  elapsed 
since  the  commencement  of  my  confinement,  years  which 
diminished  my  hope  of  being  able  to  make  reparation  for  the 
injustice  and  cruelty  I had  done  Lady  Malvina  Fitzalan,  but 
ieft  unabated  my  desire  of  doing  so. 

Ah  I sweet  Malvina ! from  thy  soft  voice  I was  doomed 
never  to  hear  my  pardon  pronounced  ; but  from  thy  child  I 
may,  perhaps,  have  it  accorded  ; if  so,  from  that  blissful  abode 
where  thou  now  enjoyest  felicity,  if  the  departed  souls  of  the 
happy  are  allowed  to  view  the  transactions  of  this  world,  thine. 
I am  convinced,  will  behold,  with  benignancy  and  compassn®^.^ 
the  wretch  who  covers  herself  with  shame  to  atone  for  her  in- 
juries to  thee.  But  I must  restrain  these  effusions  of  my  heart; 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


429 


lest  I encroach  too  much  upon  the  limited  time  allotted  to 
make  what  I may  call  my  confession,  and  inform  you  of  par* 
ticulars  necessary  to  be  known. 

My  cruelty  and  insolence  to  Lady  Malvina  you  no  doubt 
already  know.  In  my  conduct  to  her  I forgot  the  obligations 
her  mother  had  conferred  upon  me,  whose  patronage  and  kind 
protection  laid  the  foundation  of  my  prosperity.  I rejoiced  at 
her  marriage  with  Captain  Fitzalan,  as  a step  that  would  de- 
prive her  of  her  father’s  favor,  and  place'  her  in  that  state  of 
poverty  which  would  conceal  charms  I detested  for  being  su- 
perior to  my  daughter’s.  The  earl’s  resentment  was  violent  at 
first ; but  with  equal  surprise  and  concern  I soon  perceived  it 
gradually  subsiding.  The  irrevocableness  of  the  deed,  the 
knowledge  that  he  wanted  no  acquisition  of  fortune,  above  all, 
Fitzalan’s  noble  descent,  and  the  graces  and  virtues  he  pos- 
sessed, worthy  of  the  highest  station,  dwelt  upon  the  earl’s 
imagination,  and  pleaded  strongly  in  extenuation  of  his  daugh- 
ter. Alarmed  lest  my  schemes  against  her  should  be  rendered 
abortive,  like  an  evil  spirit,  I contrived  to  rekindle,  by  means 
of  my  agents,  the  earl’s  resentment.  They  represented  the 
flagrant,  the  daring  contempt  Lady  Malvina  had  shown  to 
paternal  authority,  and  that  too  easy  a forgiveness  of  it  might 
influence  her  sister  to  similar  conduct  with  a person  perhaps 
less  worthy,  and  more  needy,  it  possible,  than  Fitzalan.  This 
last  suggestion  had  the  desired  effect,  and  Lady  Malvina  he 
declared  in  future  should  be  considered  as  an  alien  to  his 
family, 

I now  hoped  my  ambitious  views,  relative  to  my  daughter, 
would  be  accomplished.  I had  long  wished  her  united  to  the 
Marquis  of  Roslin ; but  he  had  for  years  been  Lady  Malvina’s 
admirer,  and  was  so  much  attached  to  her,  that  on  her  marriage 
he  went  abroad.  My  arts  were  then  tried  to  prevail  on  the 
earl  to  make  a will  in  Lady  Augusta’s  favor ; but  this  was  a 
point  I could  not  accomplish,  and  I lived  in  continual  appre- 
hension lest  his  dying  intestate  should  give  Lady  Malvina  the 
fortune  I wanted  to  deprive  her  of.  Anxious,  however,  to  pro- 
cure a splendid  establishment  for  my  daughter,  I everywhere 
said  there  was  no  doubt  but  she  would  be  sole  heiress  to  the 
earl.  At  the  expiration  of  three  years  the  marquis  returned 
to  his  native  country.  His  unfortunate  passion  was  subdued  ; 
he  heard  and  believed  the  reports  I circulated,  and  stimulated 
by  avarice,  his  leading  propensity,  offered  his  hand  to  my 
daughter  and  was  accepted.  The  earl  gave  her  a large  por- 
tion in  ready  money ; but  notwithstanding  all  my  endeavors, 


430 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


would  not  make  a settlement  of  any  of  his  estates  upon  her. 
I,  however,  still  hoped,  and  the  marquis,  from  what  I said, 
believed  that  she  would  possess  all  his  fortune.  My  daugh- 
ter’s nuptials  added  to  my  natural  haughtiness.  They  also  in- 
creased my  love  of  pleasure,  by  affording  me  more  amply  the 
means  of  gratifying  it  at  the  sumptuous  entertainments  at  the 
marquis’s  castle.  Engaged  continually  in  them,  the  earl, 
whose  infirmities  confined  him  to  the  Abbey,  was  left  to  soli- 
tude and  the  care  of  his  domestics.  My  neglect,  you  will  say, 
was  impolitic  whilst  I had  any  point  to  carry  with  him ; but 
Providence  has  so  wisely  ordained  it  that  vice  should  still  de- 
feat itself.  Had  I always  acted  in  uniformity  with  the  tender- 
ness I once  showed  the  earl,  I have  little  doubt  but  what  at 
last  I should  have  prevailed  on  him  to  act  as  I pleased  ; but, 
infatuated  by  pleasure,  my  prudence,  no  — it  deserves  not 
such  an  appellation — forsook  me.  Though  the  earl’s  body 
was  a prey  to  the  infirmities  of  age,  his  mind  knew  none 
of  its  imbecilities,  and  he  sensibly  felt  and  secretly  resented 
my  neglect.  The  more  he  reflected  on  it,  the  more  he  con- 
trasted it  with  the  attention  he  was  accustomed  to  receive 
from  his  banished  Malvina,  and  the  resentment  I had  hitherto 
kept  alive  in  his  mind  against  her  gradually  subsided,  so  that 
he  was  well  prepared  to  give  a favorable  reception  to  the  little 
innocent  advocate  she  sent  to  plead  her  cause.  My  terror,  my 
dismay,  when  I surprised  the  little  Oscar  at  the  knee  of  his 
grandfather,  are  not  to  be  described.  The  tears  which  tha 
agitated  parent  shed  upon  the  infant’s  lovely  cheek  seemed  to 
express  affection  for  its  mother,  and  regret  for  his  rigor  to  her. 
Yet  amidst  those  tears  I thought  I perceived  an  exulting  joy 
as  he  gazed  upon  the  child,  which  seemed  to  say,  Thou  wilt 
yet  be  the  pride,  the  prop,  the  ornament,  of  my  ancient  house.” 
After  circumstances  proved  I was  right  in  my  interpretation  of 
his  looks.  I drove  the  little  Oscar  from  the  room  with  frantic 
rage.  The  earl  was  extremely  affected.  He  knew  the  vio- 
lence of  my  temper,  and  felt  too  weak  to  enter  into  any  alter- 
cation with  me.  He  therefore  reserved  his  little  remaining 
strength  and  spirits  to  arrange  his  affairs,  and  by  passiveness 
seemed  yielding  to  my  sway  ; but  I soon  found,  though  silent, . 
he  was  resolute. 

My  preventing  your  brother  from  again  gaining  access  to 
his  grandfather,  and  my  repulsing  your  mother  when  she  re- 
quested an  interview  with  the  earl,  I suppose  you  already 
know.  Gracious  Heaven  ! my  heart  sickens,  even  at  this  re- 
mote period,  when  I reflect  on  the  night  I turned  her  from  heT 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


431 


paternal  home — from  that  mansion  under  whose  roof  her  be- 
nevolent mother  had  sheltered  my  tender  years  from  the  rude 
storms  of  adverse  life.  Oh,  black  and  base  ingratitude  ! dire 
return  for  the  benefits  I had  received  ; yet,  almost  at  the  very 
instant  I committed  so  cruel  an  action  she  was  avenged. 
No  language  can  describe  my  horrors,  as  conscience  repre- 
sented to  me  the  barbarity  of  my  conduct.  I trembled  with 
involuntary  fears.  Sounds  had  power  to  terrify.  Every  blast 
which  shook  the  Abbey  (and  dreadful  was  the  tempest  of  that 
night),  made  me  shrink  as  if  about  to  meet  with  an  instanta- 
neous punishment. 

“ I trembled  at  my  undivulged  crimes 
Unwhipped  of  justice ” 

I knew  the  earl  expected  either  to  see  or  hear  from  your 
mother.  He  was  ignorant  of  the  reception  she  had  met  from 
me,  and  I was  determined,  if  possible,  he  should  continue  so. 
As  soon  as  certified  of  Lady  Malvina’s  departure  from  the 
neighborhood  of  the  Abbey,  I contrived  a letter  in  Captain 
Fitzalan’s  name  to  the  earl,  filled  with  the  most  cutting  and 
insolent  reproaches  to  him  for  his  conduct  to  his  daughter,  and 
imputing  her  precipitate  departure  from  Scotland  to  it.  These 
unjust  reproaches,  I trusted,  would  irritate  the  earl,  and  work 
another  revolution  in  his  mind ; but  I was  disappointed. 
He  either  believed  the  letter  a forgery,  or  else  resolved  the 
children  should  not  suffer  for  the  fault  of  the  parent.  He  ac- 
cordingly sent  for  his  agent,  an  eminent  lawyer  in  one  of  the 
neighboring  towns.  This  man  was  lately  deceased,  but  his 
son,  bred  to  his  profession,  obeyed  the  summons  to  the  Abbey, 
I dreaded  his  coming  ; but  scarcely  had  I seen  him,  ere  this 
dread  was  lost  in  emotions,  till  then  unknown.  A soft,  a ten- 
der, an  ardent  passion  took  possession  of  my  heart,  on  be- 
holding a man,  in  the  very  prime  of  life,  adorned  with  every 
natural  and  acquired  grace  that  could  please  the  eye  and  ear. 
Married  at  an  early  period,  possessed  of  all  the  advantages  of 
art,  said  and  believing  myself  to  be  handsome,  I flattered  my- 
self I might  on  his  heart  make  an  impression  equal  to  that  he 
•had  done  on  mine.  If  so,  I thought  how  easily  could  the  earl’s 
intentions  in  favor  of  his  daughter  be  defeated,  for  that  love  will 
readily  make  sacrifices  I had  often  heard.  A will  was  made,  but 
my  new  ideas  and  schemes  divested  me  of  uneasiness  about  it. 
Melross  continued  at  the  Abbey  much  longer  than  he  need 
have  done,  and  when  he  left  it,  his  absence  was  of  short  con- 
tinuance. The  earl’s  business  was  his  pretext  his  long  and 


432 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


frequent  visits.  But  the  real  motive  of  them  he  soon  discovered 
to  me,  encouraged,  no  doubt,  by  the  partiality  I betrayed. 

I shall  not  dwell  upon  this  part  of  my  story  ; but  I completed 
my  crime  by  violating  my  conjugal  fidelity,  and  we  entered  into 
an  engagement  to  be  united  whenever  I was  at  liberty,  which, 
from  the  infirm  state  of  the  earl,  I now  believed  would  shortly 
be  the  case.  In  consequence  of  this,  Melross  agreed  to  put 
into  my  hands  the  earhs  will,  which  had  been  intrusted  to  his 
care,  and,  he  acknowledged,  drawn  up  entirely  in  favor  of  Lady 
Malvina  Fitzalan  and  her  offspring.  It  was  witnessed  by  friends 
of  his,  whom  he  had  no  doubt  of  bribing  to  silence.  You  may 
wonder  that  the  will  was  not  destroyed  as  soon  as  I had  it  in 
my  possession.  But  to  do  so  never  was  my  intention.  By 
keeping  it  in  my  hands,  I trusted  I should  have  a power  over 
my  daughter,  which  duty  and  affection  had  never  yet  given  me. 
Violent  and  imperious  in  her  disposition,  I doubted  not  but  she 
and  the  marquis,  who  nearly  resembled  her  in  these  particulars, 
would  endeavor  to  prevent,  from  pride  and  selfishness,  my 
union  with  Melross.  But  to  know  they  were  in  my  power  would 
crush  all  opposition,  I supposed,  and  obtain  their  most  flattering 
notice  for  him — a notice,  from  my  pride,  I found  essential  to 
my  tranquillity.  The  earl  requested  Melross  to  inquire  about 
Lady  Malvina/  which  he  promised  to  do,  but,  it  is  almost  un- 
necessary to  say,  never  fulfilled  such  a promise. 

In  about  a year  after  the  commencement  of  my  attachment 
for  Melross  the  earl  expired,  and  the  marchioness  inherited  his 
possessions  by  means"  of  a forged  will  executed  by  Melross. 
Ignorant,  indeed,  at  the  time,  that  it  was  by  iniquity  she 
obtained  them,  though  her  conduct  since  that  period  has 
proved  she  would  not  have  suffered  any  compunction  from 
such  a knowledge,  I removed  from  the  Abbey  to  an  estate 
about  fifteen  miles  from  it,  which  the  earl  had  left  me,  and 
here,  much  sooner  than  decency  would  have  warranted,  avowed 
my  intention  of  marrying  Melross,  to  the  marquis  and  mar- 
chioness of  Roslin.  The  consequences  of  this  avowal  were 
pretty  much  what  I expected.  The  marquis,  more  by  looks 
than  words  expressed  his  contempt  ; but  the  marchioness 
openly  declared  her  indignation.  To  think  of  uniting  myself 
to  a being  so  low  in  life  and  fortune,  she  said,  as  Melross,  was 
an  insult  to  the  memory  of  her  father,  and  a degradation  to  his 
illustrious  house  ; it  would  also  be  a confirmation  of  the  scan- 
dalous reports  which  had  already  been  circulated  to  the  pre- 
judice of  my  character  about  him.  Her  words  roused  all  the 
violence  of  my  soul.  I upbraided  her  with  ingratitude  to  a 


I 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


435 


who  haci  stepped  beyond  the  bounds  of  rigid  propriety 
tu  give  her  an  increase  of  fortune.  My  words  alarmed  her  and 
tiwp  marquis.  They  hastily  demanded  an  explanation  of  them. 
I did  not  hesitate  in  giving  one,  protesting  at  the  same  time 
that  I would  no  longer  hurt  my  feelings  on  their  account,  as  I 
found  no  complaisance  to  my  wishes,  but  immediately  avow 
Lady  Malvina  Fitzalan  the  lawful  heiress  of  the  Earl  of  Dun- 
reath.  The  marquis  and  marchioness  changed  color  ; I saw 
they  trembled  lest  I should  put  my  threats  into  execution,  though 
with  consummate  art  they  pretended  to  disbelieve  that  such  a 
will  as  I mentioned  existed. 

‘‘  Beware,”  cried  I,  rising  from  my  chair  to  quit  the  room, 
lest  I give  you  too  convincing  a proof  of  its  reality  ; except  I 
meet  with  rhe  attention  and  complaisance  I have  a right  to  ex- 
pect, I shad  no  longer  act  contrary  to  the  dictates  of  my  con- 
science by  concealing  it.  Unlimited  mistress  of  my  own  actions, 
what  but  affection  for  my  daughter  could  make  me  consult  her 
upon  any  or  them  ? Her  disapprobation  proceeds  alone  from 
selfishness,  since  an  alliance  with  Melross,  from  his  profession, 
accomplishments,  and  birth,  would  not  disgrace  a house  even 
more  illustnous  than  the  one  she  is  descended  from  or  con- 
nected to.” 

I retired  to  my  chamber,  secretly  exulting  at  the  idea  of 
having  conqaered  all  opposition,  for  I plainly  perceived  by  the 
marquis  and  marchioness’s  manner,  they  were  convinced  it  was 
in  my  power  \o  deprive  them  of  their  newly-acquired  possessions, 
which,  to  sec«ire,  I doubted  not  their  sacrificing  their  pride  to 
my  wishes.  1 exulted  in  the  idea  of  having  my  nuptials  with 
Melross  celtbrated  with  that  splendor  I always  delighted  in, 
and  the  pros?oect  of  having  love  and  vanity  gratified,  filled  me 
with  a kind  of  intoxicating  happiness. 

In  a few  hours  after  I had  retired  to  my  room,  the  map 
chioness  sent  to  request  an  interview  with  me,  which  I readily 
granted.  She  entered  the  apartment  with  a respectful  air,  very 
unusual  to  her,  and  immediately  made  an  apology  for  her  late 
conduct.  She  acknowledged  I had  reason  to  be  offended,  but 
a little  reflection  had  convinced  her  of  her  error,  and  both  she 
and  the  marquis  thanked  me  for  consulting  them  about  the 
change  I was  about  making  in  my  situation,  and  would  pay 
every  attention  in  their  power  to  the  man  I had  honored  with 
my  choice.  That  I did  not  think  the  marchkTness  sincere  in 
her  professions  you  may  believe,  but  complaisance  was  all  I 
required.  1 accompanied  her  to  the  marquis;  a general  recon- 
ciliation ensued,  and  Melross  was  presented  to  them.  In  about 


434 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


two  days  after  this  the  marchioness  came  into  my  dressing-room 
one  morning,  and  told  me  she  had  a proposal  to  make,  which 
she  hoped  would  be  agreeable  to  me  to  comply  with.  It  was  the 
marquises  intention  and  hers  to  go  immediately  to  the  conti- 
nent, and  they  had  been  thinking,  if  Melross  and  I would  favor 
them  with  our  company,  that  we  had  better  defer  our  nuptials 
till  we  reached  Paris,  which  was  the  first  place  they  intended 
visiting,  as  their  solemnization  in  Scotland  so  soon  after  the 
earl’s  decease  mi^ht  displease  his  friends,  by  whom  we  were 
surrounded,  and,  on  their  return,  which  would  be  soon,  they 
would  introduce  Melross  to  their  connections  as  a man  every 
way  worthy  of  their  notice.  After  a little  hesitation  I agreed 
to  this  plan,  for  where  it  interfered  not  with  my  own  inclinations 
I wished  to  preserve  an  appearance  of  propriety  to  the  world, 
and  I could  not  avoid  thinking  my  marrying  so  soon  after  the 
earl’s  death  would  draw  censure  upon  me,  which  I should 
avoid  by  the  projected  tour,  as  the  certain  time  of  my  nuptials 
could  not  then  be  ascertained.  Melross  submitted  cheerfully 
to  our  new  arrangements,  and  it  was  settled  farther,  to  preserve 
appearances,  that  he  should  go  before  us  to  Paris.  I supplied 
him  with  everything  requisite  for  making  an  elegant  appearance 
and  he  departed  in  high  spirits  at  the  prospect  of  his  splendid 
establishment  for  life. 

I counted  the  moments  with  impatience  for  rejoining  him, 
and  as  had  been  settled,  we  commenced  our  journey  a month 
after  his  departure.  It  was  now  the  middle  of  winter,  and  ere 
we  stopped  for  the  night,  darkness,  almost  impenetrable,  had 
veiled  the  earth.  Fatigued,  and  almost  exhausted  by  the  cold, 
I followed  the  marquis  through  a long  passage,  lighted  by  a 
glimmering  lamp,  to  a parlor  which  was  well  lighted  and  had  a 
comfortable  fire.  I started  with  amazement  on  entering  it  at 
finding  myself  in  a place  I thought  familiar  to  me  ; my  sur- 
prise however,  was  but  for  an  instant,  yet  I could  not  help  ex- 
pressing it  to  the  marquis.  “ Your  eyes,  madam.”  cried  he, 
with  a cruel  solemnity,  “ have  not  deceived  you,  for  you  are  now 
in  Dunreath  Abbey  ! ” “ Dunreath  Abbey  ! ” I repeated  : 

‘‘  Gracious  Heaven  ! what  can  be  the  meaning  of  this  ? ” “ To 

hide  your  folly,  your  imprudence,  your  deceit  from  the  world,” 
he  exclaimed  ; “ to  prevent  your  executing  the  wild  projects  of 
a depraved  and  distempered  mind,  by  entering  into  a union  at 
once  contemptible  and  preposterous,  and  to  save  those,  from 
whom  alone  you  derive  your  consequence  by  your  connection 
with  them,  farther  mortification  on  your  account.” 

To  describe  fully  the  effect  of  this  speech  upon  a heart  like 
mine  b impossible  j the  Jury  ^which  pervaded  my  soul  would.  I 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


43S 

believe,  have  hurried  me  into  a deed  of  dire  revenge,  had  I had 
the  power  of  executing  it ; my  quivering  lips  could  not  express 
my  strong  indignation. 

“ And  do  you  then,  in  a country  like  this,’^  I cried,  “ dare 
to  think  you  can  deprive  me  of  my  liberty  ? “Yes,’’  replied 

he,  with  insulting  coolness,  when  it  is  known  you  are  incapable 
of  making  a proper  use  of  that  liberty.  You  should  thank  me,” 
he  continued,  “ for  palliating  your  late  conduct,  by  imputing  it 
rather  to  an  intellectual  derangement  than  to  total  depravity. 
From  what  other  source  than  the  former  could  you  have  asserted 
that  there  was  a will  in  Lady  Malvina  Fitzalan’s  favor  'i  ” 

These  words  at  once  developed  the  cause  of  his  unjustifiable 
conduct,  and  proved  that  there  is  no  real  faith  between  the 
guilty.  From  .my  disposition  the  marquis  was  convinced  that 
I would  assume  a haughty  sway  over  him,  in  consequence  of 
the  secret  of  the  will.  He  also  dreaded  that  passion  or  caprice 
might  one  day  induce  me  to  betray  that  secret,  and  wrest  from 
him  his  unlawful  possessions.  Thus  pride  and  avarice  tempted 
and  determined  him,  by  confining  me,  to  rid  himself  of  these 
fears.  “ Oh  ! would  to  Heaven,”  cried  I,  replying  to  the  last 
part  of  his  speech,  “ I had  proved  my  assertion  ; had  I done 
justice  to  others,  I should  not  have  been  entangled  in  the  snare 
of  treachery.”  “ Prove  the  assertion  now,”  said  he,  “by  show- 
ing me  the  will,  and  you  may,  perhaps,”  he  continued,  in  a 
hesitating  accent,  “ find  your  doing  so  attended  with  pleasing 
consequences.” 

Rage  and  scorn  flashed  from  my  eyes  at  these  words. 
“ No,”  cried  I,  “ had  you  the  power  of  torturing,  you  should 
not  tear  it  from  me.  I will  keep  it  to  atone  for  my  sins,  and 
expose  yours  to  view  by  restoring  it  to  the  right  owner.”  I 
demanded  my  liberty,  I threatened,  supplicated,  but  all  in  vain. 
The  marquis  told  me  I might  as  well  compose  myself,  for  my 
fate  was  decided.  “ You  know,”  cried  he,  with  a malicious  look, 
“you  have  no  friends  to  inquire  or  interfere  about  you,  and, 
even  if  you  had,  when  I told  them  what  I believe  to  be  the  case, 
that  your  senses  were  disordered,  they  would  never  desire  to 
have  you  released  from  this  confinement.”  I called  for  my 
daughter.  “You  will  see  her  no  more  ;”  he  replied,  “the  pas- 
sions she  has  so  long  blushed  to  behold  she  will  no  more  wit- 
ness.” “ Rather  say,”  I exclaimed,  “ that  she  dare  not  behold 
her  injured  parent ; but  let  not  the  wretch  who  has  severed  the 
ties  of  nature  hope  to  escape  unpunished.  No,  my  sufferings 
will  draw  a dreadful  weight  upon  her  head,  and  may,  when  least 
expected,  torture  her  heart  with  anguish,” 


436 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Convinced  that  I was  entirely  in  the  marquis’s  power ; con- 
vinced that  I had  nothing  to  hope  from  him  or  my  daughter, 
rage,  horror,  and  agony,  at  their  unjust  and  audacious  treatment^ 
kindled  in  my  breast  a sudden  frenzy,  which  strong  convulsions 
only  terminated.  When  I recovered  from  them  I found  myself 
on  a bed  in  a room  which,  at  the  first  glance,  I knew  to  be  the 
one  the  late  Lady  Dunreath  had  occupied,  to  whose  honors  I 
so  unworthily  succeeded.  Mrs.  Bruce,  who  had  been  house- 
keeper at  the  Abbey  before  my  marriage,  sat  beside  me ; I 
hesitated  a few  minutes  whether  I should  address  her  as  a sup- 
pliant or  a superior ; the  latter,  however,  being  most  agreeable 
to  my  inclinations,  I bid  her,  with  a haughty  air,  which  I hoped 
would  awe  her  into  obedience,  assist  me  in  rising,  and  procure 
some  conveyance  from  the  Abbey  without  delay.  The  marquis 
entered  the  chamber  as  I spoke.  Compose  yourself,  madam,” 
said  he,  “ your  destiny,  I repeat,  is  irrevocable ; this  Abbey  is 
your  future  residence,  and  bless  those  who  have  afforded  your 
follies  such  an  asylum.  It  behooves  both  the  marchioness  and 
me  indeed  to  seclude  a woman  who  might  cast  imputations  on 
our  characters,  which  those  unacquainted  with  them  might 
believe.”  I started  from  the  bed,  in  the  loose  dress  in  which 
they  had  placed  me  on  it,  and  stamping  round  the  room, 
demanded  my  liberty.  The  marquis  heard  my  demand  with 
contemptuous  silence,  and  quitted  the  room.  I attempted  to 
rush  after  him,  but  he  pushed  me  back  with  violence,  and 
closed  the  door.  My  feelings  again  brought  on  convulsions, 
which  terminated  in  a delirium  and  fever.  In  this  situation 
the  marquis  and  marchioness  abandoned  me,  hoping,  no  doubt, 
that  my  disorder  would  soon  lay  me  in  a prison  even  more 
secure  than  the  one  they  had  devoted  me  to.  Many  weeks 
elapsed  ere  I showed  any  symptom  of  recovery.  On  regaining 
my  senses,  I seemed  as  if  awaking  from  a tedious  sleep,  in 
which  I had  been  tortured  v/ith  frightful  visions.  The  first 
object  my  eyes  beheld,  now  blessed  with  the  powers  of  clear 
perception,  was  Mrs.  Bruce  bending  over  my  pillow,  with  a look 
of  anxiety  and  grief,  which  implied  a wish,  yet  a doubt,  of  my 
recovery.* 

Tell  me,”  said  I faintly,  ‘‘  am  I really  in  Dunreath  Abbey 
— am  I really  confined  within  its  walls  by  order  of  my  child  ? ” 
Mrs.  Bruce  sighed.  Do  not  disturb  yourself  with  ques- 
tions now,”  said  she ; the  reason  Heaven  has  so  mercifully 
restored  would  be  ill  employed  in  vain  murmurs.”  ‘‘Vain 
murmurs  1 ” I repeated,  and  a deep,  desponding  sigh  burst  from 

my  heart.  I lay  silent  a long  time  after  this.  The  gloom  which 
^ ^ — — 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


437 


encompassed  me  at  length  grew  too  dreary  to  be  borne,  and  I 
desired  Mrs.  Bruce  to  draw  back  the  curtains  of  the  bed  and 
windows.  She  obeyed,  and  the  bright  beams  of  the  sun,  dart- 
ing into  the  room,  displayed  to  my  view  an  object  I could  not 
behold  without  shuddering — this  was  the  portrait  of  Lady  Dun- 
reath,  exactly  opposite  the  bed.  My  mind  was  softened  by 
illness,  and  I felt  in  that  moment  as  if  her  sainted  spirit  stood 
before  me  to  awaken  my  conscience  to  remorse  and  my  heart  to 
repentance.  The  benevolence  which  had  irradiated  the  coun- 
tenance of  the  original  with  a celestial  expression  was  powerfully 
expressed  upon  the  canvas,  and  recalled,  oh ! how  affectingly 
to  my  memory,  the  period  in  which  this  most  amiable  of  women 
gave  me  a refuge  in  her  house,  in  her  arms,  from  the  storms  of 
life ; and  yet  her  child,  I groaned,  her  child,  I was  accessory  in 
destroying.  Oh ! how  excruciating  were  my  feelings  at  this 
period  of  awakened  conscience  ! 1 no  longer  inveighed  against 

my  sufferings.  I considered  them  in  the  light  of  retribution, 
and  felt  an  awful  resignation  take  possession  of  my  soul.  Yes, 
groaned  I to  myself,  it  is  fit  that  in  the  very  spot  in  which  I 
triumphed  in  deceit  and  cruelty  I should  meet  the  punishment 
due  to  my  misdeeds. 

The  change  in  my  disposition  produced  a similar  one  in  my 
temper,  so  that  Mrs.  Bruce  found  the  task  of  attending  me 
easier  than  she  had  imagined  it  would  be ; yet  I did  not  submit 
to  confinement  without  many  efforts  to  liberate  myself  through 
her  means  ; but  her  fidelity  to  her  unnatural  employers  was  not 
to  be  shaken.  Blushing,  however,  at  my  past  enormities,  I 
should  rather  have  shrunk  from  than  solicited  admission  again 
into  the  world,  had  not  my  ardent  desire  of  making  reparation 
to  the  descendants  of  Lady  Dunreath,  influenced  me  to  desire 
my  freedom.  Oh ! never  did  that  desire  cease — never  did  a 
morning  dawn,  an  evening  close,  without  entreating  Heaven  to 
allow  me  means  of  restoring  to  the  injured  their  inheritance. 
Mrs.  Bruce,  though  steady,  was  not  cruel,  and  nursed  me  with 
the  tenderest  attention  till  my  health  was  re-established.  She 
then  ceased  to  see  me,  except  at  night,  but  took  care  I should 
always  be  amply  stocked  with  necessaries.  She  supplied  me 
with  religious  and  moral  books ; also,  materials  for  writing,  if  I 
chose  to  amuse  myself  with  making  comments  on  them.  To 
those  books  am  I indebted  for  being  able  to  endure,  with  some 
degree  of  calmness,  my  long  and  dreadful  captivity.  They 
enlarged  my  heart,  they  enlightened  its  ideas  concerning  the 
Supreme  Being,  they  impressed  it  with  awful  submission  to  His 
will,  they  convinced  me  more  forcibly  of  my  transgressions,  yet 


THE  CHILDREN-  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


438 

without  exciting  despair ; for,  while  they  showed  the  horrors  of 
vice,  they  proved  the  efficacy  of  repentance.  Debarred  of  the 
common  enjoyments  of  life,  air,  exercise,  and  society,  in  vain 
my  heart  assured  me  my  punishment  was  inadequate  to  my 
crimes ; nature  repined,  and  a total  languor  seized  me.  Mrs. 
Bruce  at  last  told  me  I should  be  allowed  the  range  of  that  part 
of  the  building  in  which  I was  confined  (for  I had  hitherto  been 
limited  to  one  room),  and  consequently  air  from  the  windows, 
if  I promised  to  make  no  attempt  for  recovering  my  freedom, 
— an  attempt,  she  assured  me,  which  would  prove  abortive,  as 
none  but  people  attached  to  the  marquis  lived  in  or  about  the 
Abbey,  who  would  immediately  betray  me  to  him ; and  if  he 
ever  detected  such  a step,  it  was  his  determination  to  hurry  me 
to  France. 

Certain  that  he  would  be  capable  of  such  baseness,  touched 
by  the  smallest  indulgence,  and  eager  to  procure  any  recreation, 
1 gave  her  the  most  solemn  assurances  of  never  attempting  to 
make  known  my  situation.  She  accordingly  unlocked  the 
several  doors  that  had  hitherto  impeded  my  progress  from  one 
apartment  to  another,  and  removed  the  iron  bolts  which  secured 
the  shutters  of  the  windows.  Oh  ! with  what  mingled  pain  and 
pleasure  did  I contemplate  the  rich  prospect  stretched  before 
them,  now  that  I was  debarred  from  enjoying  it.  At  liberty,  I 
wondered  how  I could  ever  have  contemplated  it  with  a careless 
eye ; and  my  spirits,  which  the  air  had  revived,  suddenly  sunk 
into  despondence,  when  I reflected  I enjoyed  this  common 
blessing  but  by  stealth ; yet  who  (cried  I,  with  agony)  can  I 
blame  but  myself  ? The  choicest  gifts  of  Heaven  were  mine, 
and  I lost  them  by  my  own  means.  Wretch  as  I was,  the  first 
temptation  that  assailed  warped  me  from  integrity,  and  my 
error  is  marked  Dy  the  deprivation  of  every  good.  With  eager, 
with  enthusiastic  delight,  I gazed  on  scenes  which  I had  so 
often  before  regarded  with  a careless  eye ; it  seemed  as  if  I had 
only  now  perception  to  distinguish  their  beauties  ; the  season’s 
difference  made  a material  change  to  me,  as  all  the  windows 
were  shut  up  in  winter,  except  those  of  the  apartment  I occu- 
pied, which  only  looked  into  a gloomy  court.  Ah  ! how  welcome 
to  me,  then,  was  the  return  of  spring,  which  again  restored  to 
me  the  indulgence  of  visiting  the  windows.  How  delightful  to 
my  eyes  the  green  of  the  valley,  and  the  glowing  bloom  of  the 
mountain  shrubs  just  bursting  into  verdure ! Ah  ! how  soothing 
to  my  ear  the  lulling  sound  of  waterfalls,  and  the  lively  carol  of 
the  birds  : how  refreshing  the  sweetness  of  the  air,  the  fragrance 
of  U&e  plants,  which  friendly  zephyrs,  as  if  pitying  my  confine* 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


439 


ment,  wafted  through  the  windows.  The  twilight  hour  was  also 
hailed  by  me  with  delight ; it  was  then  I turned  my  eyes  from 
earth  to  heaven,  and,  regarding  its  blue  and  spangled  vault  but 
as  a thin  covering  between  me  and  myriads  of  angels,  felt  a 
sweet  sensation  of  mingled  piety  and  pleasure,  which  for  the 
time  had  power  to  steep  my  sorrows  in  forgetfulness  ! But,  in 
relating  my  feelings,  I wander  from  the  real  purpose  of  my 
narrative,  and  forget  that  I am  describing  those  feelings  to  a 
person  who,  from  my  injurious  actions,  can  take  but  little 
interest  in  them. 

The  will  I shall  deliver  to  you  to-night.  I advise  you,  if  your 
brother  cannot  immediately  be  found,  to  put  it  into  the  hands 
of  some  man  on  whose  abilities  and  integrity  you  can  rely ; but 
till  you  meet  with  such  a person,  beware  of  discovering  you 
have  it  in  your  possession,  lest  the  marquis,  who,  I am  sorry  to 
say, I believe  capable  of  almost  any  baseness,  should  remove  from 
your  knowledge  the  penitent,  whose  testimony  to  the  validity 
of  the  deed  will  be  so  cheerfully  given, and  is  so  materially  essen- 
tial. Be  secret,  then,  I again  conjure  you,  till  everything  is 
properly  arranged  for  the  avowal  of  your  rights  ; and,  oh  ! may 
the  restoration  of  all  those  rights  you  shall  claim,  be  to  you 
and  to  your  brother  productive  of  every  felicity.  From  your  hands 
may  the  wealth  it  puts  into  them  bestow  relief  and  comfort  on 
the  children  of  adversity  ; thus  yielding  to  your  hearts  a pure 
and  permanent  satisfaction,  which  the  mere  possession  of  riches, 
or  the  expenditure  on  idle  vanities,  never  can  bestow.  As 
much  as  possible  I wish  to  have  my  daughter  saved  from  pub- 
lic disgrace.  From  me  you  will  say  she  merits  not  this  lenient 
wish  ; but,  alas  ! I hold  myself  accountable  for  her  misconduct. 
Intrusted  to  my  care  by  Providence,  I neglected  the  sacred 
charge,  nor  ever  curbed  a passion  or  laid  the  foundation  of  a 
virtue.  Ah ! may  her  wretched  parent’s  prayers  be  yet  avail- 
ing ; may  penitence,  ere  too  late,  visit  her  heart,  and  teach  her 
to  regret  and  expiate  her  errors  ! Had  she  been  united  to  a 
better  man,  I think  she  never  would  have  swerved  so  widely 
from  nature  and  from  duty ; but  the  selfish  soul  of  the  marquis 
taught  her  to  regard  self  as  the  first  consideration  in  life. 

Mrs.  Bruce  informed  me  that  the  marquis  had  written  to 
Melross,  informing  him  that  I had  changed  my  mind,  and  would 
think  no  more  about  him,  and  she  supposed  he  had  procured 
some  pleasant  establishment  in  France,  as  no  one  had  ever 
heard  of  his  returning  from  it.  She  made  several  attempts  to 
prevail  on  me  to  give  up  the  will  to  her,  but  I resisted  all  her 
arts,  and  was  rejoiced  to  think  I had  concealed  it  in  a place 


440 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


which  would  never  be  suspected.  My  narrative  now  concluded, 
I wait  with  even  trembling  impatience  for  your  expected  visit 
— for  that  moment  in  which  I shall  make  some  reparation  for 
my  injuries  to  your  mother.  I am  also  anxious  for  the  moment 
in  which  I shall  receive  the  promised  narrative  of  your  life.  From 
your  tears,  your  words,  your  manner,  I may  expect  a tale  of 
sorrow  , ah  ! may  it  be  only  that  gentle  sorrow  which  yields  to 
the  influence  of  time,  and  the  sweets  of  friendship  and  con- 
scious innocence. 

I cannot  forbear  describing  what  I felt  on  first  hearing  your 
voice — a voice  so  like  in  its  harmonious  tones  to  one  I knew 
had  long  been  silent.  Impressed  with  an  awful  dread,  I stood 
upon  the  stairs,  which  I was  descending  to  visit  the  chapel,  as 
was  my  constant  custom  at  the  close  of  day.  Shivering  and 
appalled,  I had  not  for  a few  minutes  power  to  move — but  when 
I at  last  ventured  nearer  to  the  door,  and  saw  you  kneeling 
before  the  dust-covered  shade  of  her  I had  injured,  when  1 
heard  you  call  yourself  her  wretched  orphan,  ah  ! what  were 
my  emotions 't  An  awful  voice  seemed  sounding  in  my  ear — 
“ Behold  the  hour  of  retribution  is  arrived ! Behold  a being, 
whom  the  hand  of  Providence  has  conducted  hither  to  receive 
reparation  for  the  injustice  you  did  her  parents ! Adore 
that  mighty  hand  which  thus  affords  you  means  of  making 
atonement  for  your  offences  ! I did  adore  it.  I raised  my 
streaming  eyes,  my  trembling  hands  to  Heaven,  and  blessed  the 
gracious  Power  which  had  granted  my  prayer.  The  way  by 
which  I saw  you  quit  my  retirement,  proved  to  me  your  en- 
trance into  it  was  unknown.  With  an  impatience  bordering  on 
agony,  I waited  for  the  next  evening — it  came  without  bringing 
you,  and  no  language  can  express  my  disappointment.  De- 
jected, I returned  to  my  chamber,  which  you  entered  soon 
after,  and  where  you  received  so  great  a fright,  yet,  be  assured, 
not  a greater  one  than  I experienced,  for  the  gleam  of  moon- 
light which  displayed  me  to  you  gave  you  full  to  my  view,  and 
I beheld  the  very  form  and  face  of  Lady  Malvina.  In  form 
and  face  may  you  alone  resemble  her ; different,  far  different, 
be  your  destiny  from  hers.  Soon  may  your  brother  be  restored 
to  your  arms.  Should  he  then  shudder  at  my  name,  oh  ! teach 
him,  with  a mercy  like  your  own,  to  accord  me  forgiveness. 

Ye  sweet  and  precious  descendants  of  this  illustrious  house ! 
— ^ye  rightful  heirs  of  Dunreath  Abbey  ! — may  your  future  joys 
amply  recompense  your  past  sorrows  I May  those  sorrows  be 
forgotten,  or  only  remembered  to  temper  prosperity,  and  teach 
it  pity  for  the  woes  of  others  ! May  your  virtues  add  to  the 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


441 


renown  of  your  ancestors,  and  entail  eternal  peace  upon  your 
souls  1 May  their  line  by  you  be  continued,  and  continued  as 
a blessing  to  all  around  ! May  your  names  be  consecrated  to 
posterity  by  the  voice  of  gratitude,  and  excite  in  others  an  em- 
ulation to  pursue  your  courses  ! 

Alas  ! my  unhappy  child ! why  do  I not  express  such  a 
wish  for  you  ? I have  expressed  it  — I have  prayed  for  its 
accomplishment — I have  wept  in  bitterness  at  the  idea  of  its 
being  unavailing  ; lost  to  the  noble  propensities  of  nature,  it  is 
not  from  virtue,  but  from  pomp  and  vanity  you  seek  to  derive 
pleasure. 

Oh  ! lovely  orphans  of  Malvina,  did  you  but  know,  or  could 
you  but  conceive,  the  bitter  anguish  I endure  on  my  daughter’s 
account,  you  would  think  yourselves  amply  avenged  for  all  your 
injuries. 

Oh,  God ! ere  my  trembling  soul  leaves  its  frail  tenement 
of  clay,  let  it  be  cheered  by  the  knowledge  of  my  child’s  re- 
pentance. 

Oh  ! you  young  and  tender  pair,  who  are  about  entering 
into  the  dangerous  possession  of  riches,  learn  from  me  that 
their  misapplication,  the  perversion  of  our  talents,  and  the 
neglect  of  our  duties,  will,  even  in  this  world,  meet  their  pun- 
'jihment. 

Resolute  in  doing  justice  to  the  utmost  of  my  power,  I am 
ready,  whenever  I am  called  upon,  to  bear  evidence  to  the  va- 
lidity of  the  will  I shall  deliver  into  your  possession.  Soon 
may  all  it  entitles  you  to  be  restored,  is  the  sincere  prayer  of 
her  who  subscribes  herself,  the  truly  penitent 

Annabella  Dunreath* 


CHAPTER  XLVIIL 

*•  Cease,  then,  ah  ! cease,  fond  mortal  to  repine 
At  laws,  which  Nature  wisely  did  ordain  ; 

Pleasure,  what  is  it  ? rightly  to  define, 

*Tis  but  a short-lived  interval  from  pain; 

Or  rather  alternately  renewed 

Gives  to  our  lives  a sweet  vicissitude.” — Brown. 

The  emotions  Amanda  experienced  from  reading  this  nar- 
rative deeply  affected  but  gradually  subsided  from  her  mind, 
leaving  it  only  occupied  by  pity  for  the  penitent  Lady  Dun- 
reath,  and  pleasure  at  the  prospect  of  Oscar’s  independence— 


442 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


a pleasure  so  pure,  so  fervent,  that  it  had  power  to  steal  her  from 
her  sorrows  ; and  when  the  recollection  of  them  again  returned, 
she  endeavored  to  banish  it  by  thinking  of  the  necessity  there 
was  for  immediately  adopting  some  plan  for  the  disclosure  of 
the  will  Lady  Dunreath  had  advised  her  to  put  into  the  hands 
of  a friend  of  integrity  and  abilities. 

“ But  where,’’  cried  the  desolate  Amanda,  “ can  I find  such 
a friend  ? ” The  few,  the  very  few  who  she  had  reason  to 
think  regarded  her,  had  neither  power  nor  ability  to  assist  her 
in  what  would  probably  be  an  arduous  demand  for  restitution. 
After  sitting  a considerable  time  in  deep  meditation,  the  idea 
of  Rushbrook  suddenly  occurred,  and  she  started,  as  if  in  joy- 
ful surprise  at  the  remembrance.  She  considered  that,  though 
almost  a stranger  to  him,  an  application  of  such  a nature  must 
rather  be  regarded  as  a compliment  than  a liberty,  from 
the  great  opinion  it  would  prove  she  had  of  his  honor  by  in- 
trusting him  with  such  a secret.  From  his  looks  and  manner, 
she  was  well  convinced  he  would  not  only  deeply  feel  foi 
the  injured,  but  ably  advise  how  those  injuries  should  be  re- 
dressed. From  his  years  and  situation  there  could  be  no 
impropriety  in  addressing  him,  and  she  already  in  imagination 
beheld  him  her  friend,  advocate  and  adviser.  He  also,  she 
trusted,  would  be  able  to  put  her  in  a way  of  making  inquiries 
after  Oscar.  Oh  ! how  delightful  the  prospect  of  discovering 
that  brother — of  discovering,  but  to  put  him  in  possession  of 
even  a splendid  independence  ! Ah ! how  sweet  the  idea  of 
being  again  folded  to  a heart  interested  in  her  welfare,  after 
being  so  long  a solitary  mourner  treading  the  rugged  path  of 
life,  and  bending  as  she  went  beneath  its  adverse  storm  ! Ah  ! 
how  sweet  again  to  meet  an  eye  which  should  beam  with  tender- 
ness on  hers,  an  ear  which  should  listen  with  attentive  rapture 
to  her  accents,  and  a voice  that  would  soothe  with  softest  sym- 
pathy her  sorrows  ! It  is  only  those  who,  like  her,  have  known 
the  social  ties  of  life  in  all  their  sweetness  ; who,  like  her.  have 
mourned  their  loss  with  all  the  bitterness  of  anguish,  that  can 
possibly  conceive  her  feelings  as  these  ideas  occurred  to  her 
mind.  “ Oh,  Oscar  I oh,  my  brother  ! ” she  exclaimed,  while 
tears  wet  her  pale  cheeks,  “how  rapturous  the  moment  which 
restores  you  to  me  ! How  delightful  to  think  your  youth  will 
no  more  experience  the  chill  of  poverty — your  benevolence  no 
longer  suffer  restraints  ! Now  will  your  virtues  shine  forth  with 
full  lustre,  dignifying  the  house  from  which  you  have  descended, 
doing  service  to  your  country,  and  was  spreading  diffusive 
happiness  around.” 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


443 


The  morning  surprised  Amanda  in  the  midst  of  her  medita- 
tions. She  opened  the  shutters,  and  hailed  its  first  glories  in 
the  eastern  hemisphere  ; the  sunbeams,  exhaling  the  mists  of 
the  valley,  displayed  its  smiling  verdure,  forming  a fine  contrast 
to  the  deep  shadows  that  yet  partially  enveloped  the  surround- 
ing mountains.  The  morning  breeze  gently  agitated  the  old 
trees,  from  whose  bending  heads  unnumbered  birds  arose,  and 
in  their  matin  notes  seemed  to  consecrate  the  first  return  of 
day  to  the  Great  Author  of  life  and  light ! 

Spontaneous  praise  burst  from  the  lips  of  Amanda,  and  she 
felt  all  that  calm  and  sweet  delight  which  ever  pervades  a mind 
of  religion  and  sensibility  on  viewing  the  rural  beauties  of 
nature.  She  left  the  charming  scene  to  try  and  get  a little  rest, 
but  she  thought  not  of  undressing  ; she  soon  sunk  into  a gentle 
sleep,  and  awoke  with  renovated  spirits  near  the  breakfast  hour. 

Mrs.  Bruce  expressed  the  utmost  regret  at  the  necessity 
there  was  for  parting  with  her  guests  ; but  added,  that  “ she 
believed,  as  well  as  hoped,  their  absence  from  her  would  be 
but  short,  as  she  was  'sure  the  marquis’s  family  would  leave 
Scotland  almost  immediately  after  Lady  Euphrasia’s  nuptials.” 
In  vain  did  Amanda  struggle  for  fortitude  to  support  the 
mention  of  those  nuptials ; her  frame  trembled,  her  heart  sick- 
ened, whenever  they  were  talked  of ; the  spirits  she  had  en- 
deavored to  collect  from  the  idea,  that  they  would  all  be 
requisite  in  the  important  affair  she  must  undertake,  fleeted 
away  at  Mrs.  Bruce’s  words,  and  a heavy  languor  took  posses- 
sion of  her. 

They  did  not  leave  the  Abbey  till  after  tea  in  the  evening, 
and  the  idea  that  she  might  soon  behold  her  brother  the  ac 
knowledged  heir  of  that  Abbey,  cast  again  a gleam  of  pleasure 
on  the  sad  heart  of  Amanda  ; a gleam,  I say,  for  it  faded  before 
the  almost  instantaneous  recollection,  that  ere  that  period  Lord 
Mortimer  and  Lady  Euphrasia  would  be  united.  Sunk  in  a 
profound  melancholy,  she  forgot  her  situation,  heeded  not  tho 
progress  of  the  carriage,  or  remarked  any  object.  A sudden 
jolt  roused  her  from  her  reverie,  and  she  blushed  as  she  thought 
of  the  suspicions  it  might  give  rise  to  in  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Dun- 
can, whose  intelligent  eye  on  the  preceding  night  had  more 
than  half  confessed  her  knowledge  of  Amanda’s  feelings.  She 
now,  though  with  some  embarrassment,  attempted  to  enter 
into  conversation,  and  Mrs.  Duncan,  who  with  deep  attention 
had  marked  her  pensive  companion,  with  much  cheerfulness 
rendered  the  attempt  a successful  one.  The  chaise  was  now 
turning  from  the  valley,  and  Amanda  leaned  from  her  window 


444 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


to  take  another  view  of  Dunreath  Abbey.  The  sun  was  already 
sunk  below  the  horizon,  but  a track  of  glory  still  remained  that 
marked  the  spot  in  which  its  daily  course  was  finished ; a 
dubious  lustre  yet  played  around  the  spires  of  the  Abbey,  and 
while  it  displayed  its  vast  magnificence  by  contrast  added  to 
its  gloom — a gloom  heightened  by  the  dreary  solitude  of  its 
situation,  for  the  valley  was  entirely  overshaded  by  the  dark 
projection  of  the  mountains,  on  whose  summits  a few  bright  and 
lingering  beams  yet  remained,  that  showed  the  wild  shrubs 
waving  in  the  evening  breeze.  A pensive  spirit  seemed  now 
to  have  taken  possession  of  Mrs.  Duncan,  a spirit  congenial  to 
the  scene ; and  the  rest  of  the  little  journey  was  passed  almost 
in  silence.  Their  lodgings  were  at  the  entrance  of  the  town, 
and  Mrs.  Bruce  had  taken  care  they  should  find  every  requisite 
refreshment  within  them.  The  woman  of  the  house  had  already 
prepared  a comfortable  supper  for  them,  which  was  served  up 
soon  after  their  arrival.  When  over,  Mrs.  Duncan,  assisted  by 
Amanda,  put  the  children  to  bed,  as  she  knew,  till  accustomed 
to  her,  they  would  not  like  the  attendance  of  the  maid  of 
the  house.  Neither  she  nor  Amanda  felt  sleepy ; it  was  a 
fine  moonlight  night,  and  they  were  tempted  to  walk  out 
upon  a terrace,  to  which  a glass  door  from  the  room  opened. 
The  terrace  overhung  a deep  valley  which  stretched  to  the  sea, 
and  the  rocky  promontory  that  terminated  it  was  crowned  with 
the  ruins  of  an  ancient  castle  ; the  moonbeams  seemed  to  sleep 
upon  its  broken  battlements,  and  the  waves  that  stole  murmur- 
ing to  the  shore  cast  a silvery  spray  around  it.  A pensive 
pleasure  pervaded  the  hearts  of  Mrs.  Duncan  and  Amanda, 
and  conversing  on  the  charms  of  the  scene  they  walked  up  and 
down,  when  suddenly  upon  the  floating  air  they  distinguished 
the  sound  of  a distant  drum  beating  the  tattoo.  Both  stopped, 
and  leaned  upon  a fragment  of  a parapet  wall,  which  had  once 
stretched  along  the  terrace  ; and  Mrs.  Duncan,  who  knew  the 
situation  of  the  country,  said,  that  the  sounds  they  heard  pro- 
ceeded from  a fort  near  the  town.  They  ceased  in  a short 
time,  but  were  almost  immediately  succeeded  by  martial  music  ; 
and  Amanda  soon  distinguished  an  admired  march  of  her 
father’s.  Ah  ! how  afiectingly  did  it  remind  her  of  him  ! She 
recalled  the  moments  in  which  she  had  played  it  for  him,  whilst 
he  hung  over  her  chair  with  delight  and  tenderness  ; she  wept 
at  the  tender  remembrance  it  excited — wept  at  listening  to  the 
sounds  which  had  so  often  given  to  his  pale  cheek  the  flush  of 
ardor.  They  did  not  return  to  the  house  till  convinced  by  a 
long  interval  of  silence  that  the  music  had  ceased  for  the  night. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


445 

Amanda  having  formed  a plan  relative  to  the  will,  deter- 
inined  not  to  delay  executing  it.  She  had  often  mentioned  to 
Mrs.  Duncan  her  uneasiness  concerning  her  brother,  as  an  ex- 
:use  for  the  melancholy  that  lady,  in  a half-serious,  half-jesting 
manner,  so  often  rallied  her  about ; and  she  now  intended  to 
assign  her  journey  to  London  (which  she  was  resolved  should 
immediately  take  place)  to  her  anxious  wish  of  discovering,  or 
at  least  inquiring  about  him.  The  next  morning  she  accord- 
ingly mentioned  her  intention.  Mrs.  Duncan  was  not  only 
surprised,  but  concerned,  and  endeavored  to  dissuade  her  from 
it  by  representing,  in  the  most  forcible  manner,  the  dangers  she 
might  experience  in  so  long  a journey  without  a protector. 

Amanda  assured  her  she  was  already  aware  of  these,  but 
the  apprehensions  they  excited  were  less  painful  than  the 
anxiety  she  suffered  on  her  brother’s  account,  and  ended  by 
declaring  her  resolution  unalterable. 

Mrs.  Duncan,  who,  in  her  heart,  could  not  blame  Amanda 
for  such  a resolution,  now  expressed  her  hopes  that  she  would 
not  make  a longer  stay  in  London  than  was  absolutely  neces- 
sary, declaring  that  her  society  would  be  a loss  she  could 
scarcely  support. 

Amanda  thanked  her  for  her  tenderness,  and  said,  ‘‘she 
hoped  they  should  yet  enjoy  many  happy  days  together.”  She 
proposed  travelling  in  a chaise  to  the  borders  of  England,  and 
then  pursuing  the  remainder  of  the  journey  in  a stage-coach. 
The  woman  of  the  house  was  sent  for,  and  requested  to  engage 
a carriage  for  her  against  the  morning,  which  she  promised  to 
do ; and  the  intervening  time  was  almost  entirely  passed  by 
Mrs.  Duncan  in  lamenting  the  approaching  loss  of  Amanda’s 
society,  and  in  entreaties  for  her  to  return  as  soon  as  possible. 
Till  this  period  she  did  not  know,  nor  did  Amanda  conceive,  the 
strength  of  her  friendship.  She  presented  her  purse  to  our 
heroine,  and  in  the  impassioned  language  of  sincerity,  entreated 
her  to  consider  it  as  the  purse  of  a sister,  and  take  from  it 
whatever  was  necessary  for  her  long  journey  and  uncertain  stay. 

Amanda,  who  never  wished  to  lie  under  obligations,  when 
she  could  possibly  avoid  them,  declined  the  offer  ; but  with  the 
warmest  expressions  of  gratitude  and  sensibility,  declaring  (what 
she  thought  indeed  would  be  the  case),  that  she  had  more  than 
sufficient  for  all  her  purposes  ; all,  therefore,  she  would  accept 
was  what  Mrs.  Duncan  owed  her. 

Mrs.  Duncan  begged  her  to  take  a letter  from  her  to  a 
family,  near  whose  house  her  first  day’s  journey  would  terminate. 
They  were  relations  of  Mr.  Duncan’s,  she  said,  and  had  been 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


446 

extremely  kind  to  him  and  her.  She  had  kept  up  a corre- 
spondence with  them  till  her  removal  to  Dunreath  Abbey,  when 
she  dropped  it,  lest  her  residence  there  should  be  discovered  ; 
but  such  an  opportunity  of  writing  to  them,  by  a person  who 
would  answer  all  their  inquiries  concerning  her,  she  could  not 
neglect ; besides,  she  continued,  they  were  the  most  agreeable 
and  hospitable  people  she  had  ever  known,  and  she  was  con* 
vinced  would  not  suffer  Amanda  to  sleep  at  an  inn,  but  would 
probably  keep  her  a few  days  at  their  house,  and  then  escort 
her  part  of  the  way. 

Averse  to  the  society  of  strangers,  in  her  present  frame  of 
mind,  Amanda  said  she  would  certainly  take  the  letter,  but 
could  not  possibly  present  it  herself.  She  thanked  Mrs.  Dun- 
can for  her  solicitous  care  about  her;  but  added,  whether  she 
lodged  at  an  inn  or  private  house  for  one  night  was  of  little 
consequence  ; and  as  to  her  journey  being  retarded,  it  was 
what  she  never  could  allow. 

Mrs.  Duncan  declared  she  was  too  fond  of  solitude,  but  did 
not  argue  the  point  with  her.  She  wrote  the  letter,  however. 

They  took  leave  of  each  other  at  night,  as  the  chaise  was 
ordered  at  an  early  hour.  As  Mrs.  Duncan  folded  Amanda  to 
her  heart,  she  again  besought  her  to  hasten  back,  declaring 
that  neither  she  nor  her  little  girls  would  be  themselves  till  she 
returned. 

At  an  early  hour  Amanda  entered  the  chaise  ; and,  as  she 
stepped  into  it,  could  not  forbear  casting  a sad  and  lingering 
look  upon  a distant  prospect,  where,  the  foregoing  evening,  a 
dusky  grove  of  firs  had  been  pointed  out  to  her,  as  encompas- 
sing the  Marquis  of  Roslin’s  Castle.  Ah  ! how  did  her  heart 
sicken  at  the  idea  of  the  event  which  either  had  or  was  soon  to 
take  place  in  that  Castle  ! Ah  ! how  did  she  tremble  at  the 
idea  of  her  long  and  lonesome  journey,  and  the  difficulties  she 
might  encounter  on  its  termination  ! How  sad,  how  solitary, 
did  she  feel  herself  ! Her  mournful  eyes  filled  with  tears  as 
she  saw  the  rustic  families  hastening  to  their  daily  labors ; for 
her  mind  involuntarily  drew  a comparison  between  their  situa- 
tion and  her  own.  And,  ah  ! how  sweet  would  their  labor  be  to 
her,  she  thought,  if  she,  like  them,  was  encompassed  with  the 
social  ties  of  life.  Fears,  before  unthought  of,  rose  in  her  mind, 
from  which  her  timid  nature  shrunk  appalled.  Should  Rush- 
brook  be  absent  from  London,  or  should  he  not  answer  her  ex- 
pectations ; but,  I deserve  disappointment,’^  cried  she,  “if  I 
thus  anticipate  it.  Oh ! let  me  not  be  over-exquisite 

* To  cast  the  fashion  of  uncertain  evils,’ 


the  children  of  the  abbey. 


447 


oppressed  as  I already  am  with  real  ones.’^  She  endeavored  to 
exert  her  spirits.  She  tried  to  amuse  them  by  attending  to  the 
objects  she  passed,  and  gradually  they  lost  somewhat  of  their 
heaviness.  On  arriving  in  London,  she  designed  going  to  the 
haberdasher’s,  where,  it  may  be  remembered,  she  had  once  met 
Miss  Rushbrook  ; here  she  hoped  to  procure  lodgings,  also  a 
direction  to  Rushbrook.  It  was  about  five  when  she  stopped 
for  the  night,  as  the  shortened  days  of  autumn  would  not  per- 
mit a longer  journey,  had  the  tired  horses,  which  was  not  the 
case,  been  able  to  proceed.  They  stopped  at  the  inn,  which 
Mrs.  Duncan  had  taken  care  to  knov/  would  be  the  last  stage 
of  the  first  day’s  journey  ; a small,  but  neat  and  comfortable 
house,  romantically  situated  at  the  foot  of  a steep  hill,  planted 
with  ancient  firs,  and  crowned  with  the  straggling  remains  of 
what  appeared  to  have  been  a religious  house,  from  a small 
cross  which  yet  stood  over  a broken  gateway.  A stream  trickled 
from  the  hill,  though  its  murmurs  through  the  thick  underwood 
alone  denoted  its  rising  there,  and  winding  round  the  inn, 
flowed  in  meanders  through  a spacious  vale,  of  which  the  inn 
was  not  the  lone  inhabitant,  for  cottages  appeared  on  either  side, 
and  one  large  mansion  stood  in  the  centre,  whose  superior  size 
and  neat  plantations  proclaimed  it  master  of  the  whole.  This 
was  really  the  case,  for  immediately  on  entering  the  inn  Aman- 
da had  inquired  about  the  Macqueen  family,  to  whom  Mrs. 
Duncan’s  letter  was  directed,  and  learned  that  they  inhabited 
this  house,  and  owned  the  grounds  to  a large  extent  surround- 
ing it.  Amanda  gave  Mrs.  Duncan’s  letter  to  the  landlady, 
and  begged  she  would  send  it  directly  to  Mrs.  Macqueen.  The 
inn  was  without  company ; and  its  quiet  retirement,  together 
with  the  appearance  of  the  owners,  an  elderly  pair,  soothed  the 
agitated  spirits  of  Amanda.  Her  little  dinner  was  soon  served 
up  ; but  when  over,  and  she  was  left  to  herself,  all  the  painful 
ideas  she  had  sedulously,  and  with  some  degree  of  success,  at- 
tempted to  banish  from  her  mind  in  the  morning,  by  attending 
to  the  objects  she  passed,  now  returned  with  full,  or  rather  ag- 
gravated force.  Books,  those  pleasing,  and,  in  affliction,  allevi- 
ating resources,  she  had  forgotten  to  bring  along  with  her,  and 
all  that  the  inn  contained  she  had  been  shown  on  a shelf  in  the 
apartment  she  occupied,  but  without  finding  one  that  could  pos- 
sibly fix  her  attention  or  change  her  melancholy  ideas  ; a ramble, 
though  the  evening  was  uninviting,  she  preferred  to  the  passive 
indulgence  of  her  sorrow  ; and  having  ordered  tea  against  her 
return,  and  invited  the  landlady  to  it,  she  was  conducted  to  the 
garden  of  the  inn,  from  whence  she  ascended  the  hill  by  a wind- 


448 


TBE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


ing  path.  She  made  her  way  with  difficulty  through  a path> 
which,  seldom  trodden,  was  half-choked  with  weeds  and 
brambles  ; the  wind  blew  cold  and  sharp  around  her,  and  the 
gloom  of  closing  day  was  heightened  by  thick  and  lowering 
clouds  that  involved  the  distant  mountains  in  one  dark  shade. 
Near  those  mountains  she  knew  the  domain  of  Roslin  lay  ; and 
from  the  bleak  summit  of  the  hill  she  surveyed  them  as  a lone 
mourner  would  survey  the  sad  spot  in  which  the  pleasure  of 
his  heart  was  buried.  Forgetting  the  purpose  for  which  she 
had  walked  out,  she  leaned  in  melancholy  reverie  against  a 
fragment  of  the  ruined  building,  nor  heard  approaching  foot- 
steps till  the  voice  of  her  host  suddenly  broke  upon  her  ear. 
She  started,  and  perceived  him  accompanied  by  two  ladies,  who 
he  directly  informed  her  were  Mrs.  and  Miss  Macqueen.  They 
both  went  up  to  Amanda,  and  after  the  usual  compliments  of 
introduction  were  over,  Mrs.  Macqueen  took  her  hand,  and 
with  a smile  of  cordial  good-nature,  invited  her  to  her  house  for 
the  night,  declaring  that  the  pleasure  she  received  from  Mrs. 
Duncan’s  letter  was  heightene'd  by  being  introduced  through  its 
means  to  a person  that  lady  mentioned  as  her  particular  friend. 
Miss  Macqueen  seconded  her  mother’s  invitation,  and  said, 
“ the  moment  they  had  read  the  letter  they  had  come  out  for 
the  purpose  of  bringing  her  back  with  them.”  “ Ay,  ay,”  said 
the  host,  good-humoredly  (who  was  himself  descended  from  one 
of  the  inferior  branches  of  the  Macqueens),  ‘‘  this  is  the  way, 
ladies,  you  always  rob  me  of  my  guests.  In  good  faith,  I think 
I must  soon  change  my  dwelling,  and  go  higher  up  the  valley.” 

Conscious  from  her  utter  dejection  that  she  would  be  un-. 
able,  as  she  wished,  to  participate  in  the  pleasures  of  conversa- 
tion, Amanda  declined  the  invitation,  alleging,  as  an  excuse  for 
doing  so,  her  intention  of  proceeding  on  her  journey  the  next 
morning  by  dawn  of  day. 

Mrs.  Macqueen  declared  that  she  should  act  as  she  pleased 
in  that  respect,  and  both  she  and  her  daughter  renewed  their 
entreaties  for  her  company  with  such  earnestness,  that  Amanda 
could  no  longer  refuse  them  ; and  they  returned  to  the  inn, 
where  Amanda  begged  they  would  excuse  her  absence  a few 
minutes  ; and  retired  to  pay  her  entertainers,  and  repeat  her 
charges  to  the  postilion  to  be  at  the  house  as  soon  as  he  should 
think  any  of  the  family  stirring.  She  then  returned  to  the 
ladies,  and  attended  them  to  their  mansion,  which  ^ might  well 
be  termed  the  seat  of  hospitality.  The  family  consisted  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Macqueen,  four  sons,  and  six  daughters,  now  all  past 
childhood,  and  united  to  one  another  by  the  strictest  ties  of 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


449 


duty  and  affection.  After  residing  a few  years  at  Edinburgh, 
for  the  improvement  of  the  young  people,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mac- 
queen  returned  to  their  mansion  in  the  valley,  where  a large 
fortune  was  spent  in  the  enjoyment  of  agreeable  society,  and 
acts  of  benevolence.  Mrs.  Macqueen  informed  Amanda,  dur- 
ing the  walk,  that  all  her  family  were  now  assembled  together, 
as  her  sons,  who  were  already  engaged  in  different  professions 
and  businesses  in  various  parts  of  the  kingdom,  made  it  a con- 
stant rule  to  pay  a visit  every  autumn  to  their  friends.  It  was 
quite  dark  before  the  ladies  reached  the  house,  and  the  wind 
was  sharp  and  cold,  so  that  Amanda  found  the  light  and  warmth 
of  the  drawing-room,  to  which  she  was  conducted,  extremely 
agreeable.  The  thick  window  curtains  and  carpeting,  and  the 
enlivening  fire,  bid  defiance  to  the  sharpness  of  the  mountain 
blast  which  howled  without,  and  rendered  the  comforts  within 
more  delectable  by  the  effect  of  contrast.  In  the  drawing-room 
were  assembled  Mr.  Macqueen,  two  of  his  daughters,  and  half 
a dozen  ladies  and  gentlemen,  to  whom  Amanda  was  presented, 
and  they  in  return  to  her.  In  the  countenance  of  Mr.  Mac- 
queen, Amanda  perceived  a benevolence  equal  to  that  which 
irradiated  his  wife’s.  Both  were  past  the  prime  of  life  ; but  in 
him  only  was  its  decline  visible.  He  was  lately  grown  so  in- 
firm as  to  be  unable  to  remove  without  assistance.  Yet  was  his 
relish  for  society  undiminished  ; and  in  his  arm-chair,  his  legs 
muffled  in  flannel,  and  supported  by  pillows,  he  promoted  as 
much,  as  ever  the  mirth  of  his  family,  and  saw  with  delight  the 
dance  go  on  in  which  he  had  once  mixed  with  his  children.  Mrs. 
Macqueen  appeared  but  as  the  eldest  sister  of  her  daughters  ; 
and  between  them  all  Amanda  perceived  a strong  family  like- 
ness. They  were  tall,  well,  but  not  delicately  made ; handsome, 
yet  more  indebted  to  the  animation  of  their  countenances  than 
to  regularity  of  features  for  beauty,  which  was  rendered  luxu- 
riant by  a quantity  of  rich  auburn  hair,  that,  unrestrained 
by  superfluous  ornaments,  fell  in  long  ringlets  on  their  shoulders, 
and  curled  with  a sweet  simplicity  on  their  white  polished 
foreheads. 

So  the  boys  and  girls  are  not  yet  returned,”  said  Mrs. 
Macqueen,  addressing  one  of  her  daughters.  ‘‘  I am  afraid 
they  have  taken  their  friends  too  far.”  Shr.  had  scarcely 
spoken,  when  a party  was  heard  under  the  windows  laughing 
and  talking,  who  ascended  the  stairs  immediately  in  a kind  of 
gay  tumult.  The  drawing-room  door  opened,  and  a lady  en- 
tered (of  a most  prepossessing  appearance,  though  advanced 
in  life),  and  was  followed  by  a number  of  young  people. 


4S0 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


But,  oh  I what  were  the  powerful  emotions  of  Amanda’s 
soul,  when  amongst  them  she  beheld  Lady  Araminta  Dormer 
and  Lord  Mortimer!  Shocked,  confused,  confounded,  she 
strained  an  eye  of  agony  upon  them,  as  if  with  the  hope  of 
detecting  an  illusion,  then  dropped  her  head,  anxious  to  con- 
ceal herself,  though  she  was  fatally  convinced  she  could  be  but 
a few  minutes  unobserved  by  them.  Never,  amidst  the  many 
trying  moments  of  her  life,  had  she  experienced  one  more 
dreadful.  To  behold  Lord  Mortimer,  when  she  knew  his  es- 
teem for  her  was  lost,  at  a period,  too,  when  he  was  hastening 
to  be  united  to  another  woman,  oh  1 it  was  agony,  torture  in  the 
extreme!  Vainly  did  she  reflect  she  deserved  not  to  lose  his 
esteem.  This  consciousness  could  not  at  present  inspire  her 
with  fortitude.  Pier  heart  throbbed  as  if  it  would  burst ; her 
bosom,  her  frame  trembled,  and  she  alternately  experienced 
the  glow  of  confusion  and  the  chill  of  dismay — dismay  at 
the  idea  of  meeting  the  silent  but  expressive  reproach  of  Lord 
Mortimer’s  eye  for  her  imaginary  errors — dismay  at  the  idea  ol 
meeting  the  contempt  of  his  aunt  (who  was  the  lady  that  fii5t 
entered  the  room)  and  sister. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

• ^ 

“ It  would  raise  your  pity  but  to  see  the  tears 
Force  through  her  snowy  lids  their  melting  course^ 

To  lodge  themselves  on  lier  red  murmuring  lips, 

That  talk  such  mournful  things  ; when  straight  a gale 
Of  starting  sighs  carry  those  pearls  away, 

As  dews  by  winds  are  wafted  from  the  flowers.” — Lee. 

Bitterly  did  Amanda  regret  having  been  tempted  from  the 
inn,  and  gratefully  would  she  have  acquitted  fortune  of  half 
its  malignancy  to  her,  had  she  been  able  to  steal  back  unno- 
ticed. The  party  that  entered  engaged  in  talking  to  those  they 
found  in  the  drawing-room  — laughing  and  describing  their 
ramble,  which  Lady  Araminta  said  was  in  the  style  of  Will-o’- 
the-Wisp  (over  brakes  and  through  briers) — were  some  time 
before  they  observed  Amanda  ; but  soon,  ah  ! how  much  too 
soon,  did  she  perceive  Mrs.  Macqueen  approaching  to  intro- 
duce  those  of  her  family  who  were  just  returned. 

The  trying  moment  is  come  ! ” cried  Amanda.  ‘‘  Oh  ! let 
me  not  by  my  confusion  look  as  if  I really  was  the  guilty  thing 
i am  supposed  to  be.”  She  endeavored  to  collect  herself,  and 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


451 

rose  to  meet  the  young  Macqueens,  by  a timid  glance  perceiv- 
ing that  they  yet  hid  her  from  the  eyes  she  most  dreaded  to 
encounter.  She  was  unable,  however,  to  return  their  compli- 
ments, except  by  a faint  smile,  and  was  again  sinking  upon  her 
seat — for  her  frame  trembled  universally — when  Mrs.  Mac- 
queen,  taking  her  hand,  led  her  forward,  and  presented  her  to 
Lady  Martha  and  Lady  Araminta  Dormer.  It  may  be  remem- 
bered that  Lady  Martha  had  never  before  seen  Amanda.  She 
therefore  gave  her,  as  Miss  Donald,  a benignant  smile,  which, 
had  she  supposed  her  Miss  Fitzalan,  would  have  been  lost  in  a 
contemptuous  frown.  Seldom,  indeed,  had  she  seen  a form 
more  interesting  than  our  heroine's.  Her  mourning  habit  set 
off  the  elegance  of  her  form  and  the  languid  delicacy  of  her 
complexion,  whilst  the  sad  expression  of  her  countenance  de- 
noted that  habit  but  the  shadow  of  the  unseen  grief  which 
dwelt  within  her  soul.  Her  large  blue  eyes  were  half  con- 
cealed by  their  long  lashes,  but  the  beams  which  stole  from  be- 
neath those  fringed  curtains  were  full  of  sweetness  and  sensi- 
bility. Her  fine  hair,  discomposed  by  the  jolting  of  the  car- 
riage and  the  blowing  of  the  wind,  had  partly  escaped  the 
braid  on  which  it  was  turned  under  her  hat,  and  hung  in  long 
ringlets  of  glossy  brown  upon  her  shoulders  and  careless  curls 
about  her  face,  giving  a sweet  simplicity  to  it,  which  heightened 
its  beauty.  How  different  was  the  look  she  received  from 
Lady  Araminta  to  that  she  had  received  from  L^dy  Martha ! 
In  the  expressive  countenance  of  the  former  she  read  surprise, 
contempt,  and  anger ; her  cheeks  were  flushed  with  unusual 
color,  her  eyes  sparkled  with  uncommon  lustre,  and  their  quick 
glances  pierced  the  palpitating  heart  of  Amanda,  who  heard 
her  repeat,  as  if  involuntarily,  the  name  of  Donald.  Ah  ! how 
dreadful  was  the  sound  to  her  ear ! Ah  ! how  sad  a confirma- 
tion did  it  convey — that  every  suspicion  to  her  prejudice  would 
now  be  strengthened.  Ah  ! why,  why,"  said  she  to  herself, 
‘‘  was  I tempted  to  take  this  hated  name  ? Why  did  I not 
prefer  incurring  any  danger  to  which  my  own  might  have  ex- 
posed me,  rather  than  assume  anything  like  deceit  ? " Happily 
the  party  were  too  much  engrossed  by  one  another  to  heed 
the  words  or  manner  of  Lady  Araminta. 

Amanda  withdrew  her  hand  from  Mrs.  Macqueen,  and 
moved  tremblingly  to  her  seat ; but  that  lady,  with  a politeness 
poor  Amanda  had  reason  to  think  officious,  stopped  her. 
“Miss  Donald — Lord  Mortimer !"  said  she.  Amanda  raised 
her  head,  but  not  her  eyes,  and  neither  saw  nor  heard  his  lord- 
ship.  The  scene  she  had  dreaded  was  over,  and  she  felt  a 


452 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


little  relieved  at  the  Idea.  The  haughty  glance  of  Lady  Ara* 
minta  dwelt  upon  her  mind,  and,  when  agitation  had  a little 
subsided,  she  stole  a look  at  her,  and  saw  Mrs.  Macqueen 
sitting  between  her  and  Lady  Martha ; and  from  the  altered 
countenance  of  the  latter,  she  instantly  conjectured  she  had 
been  informed  by  her  niece  of  her  real  name.  She  also  con- 
jectured, from  the  glances  directed  towards  her,  that  she  was 
the  subject  of  conversation,  and  concluded  it  was  begun  for  the 
purpose  of  discovering  whether  Mrs.  Macqueen  knew  anything 
of  her  real  history. 

From  these  glances  she  quickly  withdrew  her  own,  and  one 
of  the  young  Macqueens,  drawing  a chair  near  hers,  began  a 
conversation  with  all  that  spirit  and  vivacity  which  distim 
guished  his  family.  The  mind  of  Amanda  was  too  much  occu- 
pied by  its  concerns  to  be  able  to  attend  to  anything  foreign  to 
them.  She  scarcely  knew  what  he  said,  and  when  she  did 
reply  it  was  only  by  monosyllables.  At  last  a question,  en- 
forced with  peculiar  earnestness,  roused  her  from  this  inatten- 
tion, and  blushing  for  it,  she  looked  at  the  young  man,  and 
perceived  him  regarding  her  with  something  like  wonder.  She 
now,  for  the  first  time,  considered  the  strange  appearance  she 
must  make  amongst  the  company,  if  she  did  not  collect  and 
compose  her  spirits.  The  family,  too,  to  whom  she  was  (she 
could  not  help  thinking)  so  unfortunately  introduced,  from  their 
hospitality,  merited  attention  and  respect  from  her.  She 
resolved,  therefore,  to  struggle  with  her  feelings,  and,  as  an 
apology  for  her  absent  manner,  complained,  and  not  without 
truth,  of  a headache. 

Young  Macqueen,  with  friendly  warmth,  said  he  would  ac- 
quaint his  mother,  or  one  of  his  sisters,  with  her  indisposition, 
and  procure  some  remedy  for  it ; but  she  insisted  he  should  on 
no  account  disturb  the  company,  assuring  him  she  would  soon 
be  well ; she  then  endeavored  to  support  a conversation  with 
him  ; but,  ah  ! how  often  did  she  pause  in  the  midst  of  what 
she  was  saying,  as  the  sweet,  insinuating  voice  of  Mortimei 
reached  her  ear,  who,  with  his  native  elegance  and  spirit,  was 
participating  in  the  lively  conversation  then  going  forward.  In 
hers,  with  young  Macqueen,  she  was  soon  interupted  by  hia 
father,  who,  in  a good-humored  manner  told  his  son  he  would 
no  longer  suffer  him  to  engross  Miss  Donald  to  himself,  and 
desired  him  to  lead  her  to  a chair  near  his. 

Young  Macqueen  immediately  arose,  and  taking  Amanda’s 
hand,  led  her  to  his  father,  by  whom  he  seated  her ; and  by 
whom  on  the  other  side  sat  Lady  Martha  Dormer ; then  with 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


45^ 

modest  gallantry  declared  it  was  the  first  time  he  ever  felt  re- 
luctance to  obey  his  father’s  commands,  and  hoped  his  ready 
acquiescence  to  them  would  be  rewarded  with  speedy  permis- 
sion to  resume  his  conversation  with  Miss  Donald.  Amanda 
had  hitherto  prevented  her  eyes  from  wandering,  though  they 
could  not  exclude  the  form  of  Lord  Mortimer ; she  had  not 
yet  seen  his  face,  and  still  strove  to  avoid  seeing  it.  Mr.  Mac- 
queen  began  with  various  inquiries  relative  to  Mrs.  Duncan,  to 
which  Amanda,  as  she  was  prepared  for  them,  answered  with 
tolerable  composure.  Suddenly  he  dropped  the  subject  of  his 
relation,  and  asked  Amanda  from  what  branch  of  the  Don- 
alds she  was  descended.  A question  so  unexpected  shocked, 
dismayed,  and  overwhelmed  her  with  confusion.  She  made  no 
reply  till  the  question  was  repeated,  when,  in  a low  and  falter 
ing  voice,  her  face  covered  with  blushes,  and  almost  buried 
in  her  bosom,  she  said  she  did  not  know. 

“ Well,”  cried  he,  again  changing  his  discourse,  after  looking 
at  her  a few  minutes,  “ I do  not  know  any  girl  but  yourself  would 
take  such  pains  to  hide  such  a pair  of  eyes  as  you  have.  I sup- 
pose you  are  conscious  of  the  mischief  they  have  the  power  of 
doing,  and  therefore  it  is  from  compassion  to  mankind  you  try 
to  conceal  them.” 

Amanda  blushed  yet  more  deeply  than  before  at  finding  her 
downcast  looks  were  noticed.  She  turned  hers  with  quickness 
to  Mr.  Macqueen,  who  having  answered  a question  of  Lady 
Martha’s  thus  proceeded  : And  so  you  do  not  know  from  which 
branch  of  the  Donalds  you  are  descended  t Perhaps  now  you 
only  forget,  and  if  I was  to  mention  them  one  by  one,  your 
memory  might  be  refreshed  ; but  first  let  me  ask  your  father’s 
surname,  and  what  countrywoman  he  married,  for  the  Donalds 
generally  married  amongst  each  other  ? 

Oh  1 how  forcibly  was  Amanda  at  this  moment  convinced 
(if  indeed  her  pure  soul  wanted  such  conviction)  of  the  pain,  the 
shame  of  deception,  let  the  motive  be  what  it  may  which  prompts 
it.  Involuntarily  were  her  eyes  turned  from  Mr.  Macqueen  as 
he  paused  for  a reply  to  his  last  question,  and  at  the  moment 
encountered  those  of  Lord  Mortimer,  who  sat  directly  opposite 
to  her,  and  with  deep  attention  regarded  her,  as  if  anxious  to 
hear  how  she  would  extricate  herself  from  the  embarrassments 
her  assumed  name  had  plunged  her  into. 

Her  confusion,  her  blushes,  her  too  evident  distress,  were 
all  imputed  by  Mrs.  Macqueen  to  fatigue  at  listening  to  such 
tedious  inquiries.  She  knew  her  husband’s  only  foible  was  an 
eager  desire  to  trace  every  one’s  pedigree.  In  order,  therefore. 


454 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


to  relieve  Amanda  from  her  present  situation,  she  proposed  a 
party  of  whist,  at  which  Mr.  Macqueen  often  amused  himself, 
and  for  which  the  table  and  cards  were  already  laid  before  him. 
As  she  took  up  the  cards  to  hand  them  to  those  who  were  to 
draw,  she  whispered  Amanda  to  go  over  to  the  tea-table. 

Amanda  required  no  repetition  now,  and  thanking  Mrs. 
Macqueen  in  her  heart  for  the  relief  she  afforded  her,  went  to 
the  table  around  which  almost  all  the  young  people  were 
crowded  ; so  great  was  the  mirth  going  on  amongst  them,  that 
Miss  Macqueen,  the  gravest  of  the  set,  in  vain  called  upon  her 
sisters  to  assist  her  in  serving  the  trays,  which  the  servants 
handed  about,  and  Mrs.  Macqueen  had  more  than  once  called 
for.  Miss  Macqueen  made  room  for  Amanda  by  herself,  and 
Amanda,  anxious  to  do  anything  which  could  keep  her  from  en- 
countering the  eyes  she  dreaded,  requested  to  be  employed  in 
assisting  her,  and  was  deputed  to  fill  out  the  coffee.  After  the 
first  performance  of  her  task,  Miss  Macqueen,  in  a whispering 
voice,  said  to  Amanda,  “ Do  you  know  we  are  all  here  more 
than  half  in  love  with  Lord  Mortimer.  He  is  certainly  very 
handsome,  and  his  manner  is  quite  as  pleasing  as  his  looks,  for 
he  has  none  of  that  foppery  and  conceit  which  handsome  men 
so  generally  have,  and  nothing  but  the  knowledge  of  his  engage* 
ment  could  keep  us  from  pulling  caps  about  him.  You  have 
heard,  to  be  sure,  of  Lady  Euphrasia  Sutherland,  the  Marquis 
of  Roslin^s  daughter ; well,  he  is  going  to  be  married  to  hei 
immediately ; she  and  the  marquis  and  the  marchioness,  were 
here  the  other  day.  She  is  not  to  be  compared  to  Lord 
Mortimer,  but  she  has  what  will  make  her  be  considered  very 
handsome  in  the  eyes  of  many — namely,  a large  fortune.  They 
only  stopped  to  breakfast  here,  and  ever  since  we  have  been  on 
the  watch  for  the  rest  of  the  party,  who  arrived  this  morning, 
and  were,  on  Lady  Martha’s  account,  whom  the  journey  had 
fatigued,  prevailed  on  to  stay  till  to-morrow.  I am  very  glad 
you  came,  while  they  were  here.  I think  both  ladies  charming 
women,  and  Lady  Araminta  quite  as  handsome  as  her  brother  \ 
but  see,’*  she  continued,  touching  Amanda’s  hand,  “ the  con- 
quering hero  comes  1 ” Lord  Mortimer  with  difficulty  made  his 
way  round  the  table,  and  accepted  a seat  by  Miss  Macqueen, 
which  she  eagerly  offered  him,  and  which  she  contrived  to  pro- 
cure by  sitting  closer  to  Amanda.  To  her  next  neighbor,  a fine, 
lively  girl,  Amanda  now  turned,  and  entered  into  conversation 
mth  her  ; but  from  this  she  was  soon  called  by  Miss  Macqueen, 
^questing  her  to  pour  out  a cup  of  coffee  for  Lord  Mortimer. 

Amanda  obeyed,  and  he  rose  to  receive  it;  her  hand 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


4SS 


trembled  as  she  presented  it.  She  looked  not  in  his  face,  but 
she  thought  his  hand  was  not  quite  steady.  She  saw  him  lay 
the  cup  on  the  table,  and  bend  his  eyes  to  the  ground.  She 
heard  Miss  Macqueen  address  him  twice  ere  she  received  an 
answer,  and  then  it  was  so  abrupt  that  it  seemed  the  effect  of 
sudden  recollection.  Miss  Macqueen  now  grew  almost  as  in- 
attentive to  the  table  as  her  sisters,  and  Mrs.  Macqueen  was 
obliged  to  come  over  to  know  what  they  were  all  about.  At 
length  the  business  of  the  tea-table  was  declared  over ; and 
almost  at  the  same  moment  the  sound  of  a violin  was  heard 
from  an  adjoining  room,  playing  an  English  country  dance,  in 
which  style  of  dancing  the  Macqueens  had  been  instructed  in 
Edinburgh,  and  chose  this  evening  in  compliment  to  their 
guests.  The  music  was  a signal  for  universal  motion — all  in  a 
moment  was  bustle  and  confusion.  The  young  men  instantly 
selected  their  partners,  who  seemed  ready  to  dance  from  one 
room  to  another.  The  young  Macqueen,  who  had  been  so 
assiduous  about  Amanda,  now  came,  and  taking  her  hand,  as  if 
her  dancing  was  a thing  of  course,  was  leading  her  after  the 
rest  of  the  party,  when  she  drew  back,  declaring  she  could  not 
dance.  Surprised  and  disappointed,  he  stood  looking  on  her 
in  silence,  as  if  irresolute  whether  he  should  not  attempt  to 
change  her  resolution.  At  last  he  spoke,  and  requested  she 
would  not  mortify  him  by  a refusal. 

Mrs.  Macqueen  hearing  her  son^s  request  came  forward  and 
joined  it.  Amanda  pleaded  her  headache. 

‘‘  Do,  my  dear,' ’ said  Mrs.  Macqueen,  “ try  one  dance  ; my 
girls  will  tell  you  dancing  is  a sovereign  remedy  for  everything.’’ 
It  was  painful  to  Amanda  to  refuse  ; but,  scarcely  able  to  stand, 
.she  was  utterly  unable  to  dance ; had  even  her  strength  per- 
mitted her  so  to  do,  she  could  not  have  supported  the  idea  of 
mingling  in  the  set  with  Lord  Mortimer,  the  glance  of  whose 
eye  she  never  caught  without  a throb  in  her  heart,  which  shook 
her  whole  frame.  One  of  the  Miss  Macqueens  ran  into  the 
room,  exclaiming : “ Lord,  Colin,  what  are  you  about  1 Lord 
Mortimer  and  my  sister  have  already  led  off ; do,  pray,  make 
haste  and  join  us,”  and  away  She  ran  again. 

“ Let  me  no  longer  detain  you,”  said  Amanda,  withdrawing 
her  hand.  Young  Macqueen  finding  her  inflexible,  at  length 
went  off  to  seek  a partner.  He  was  as  fond  of  dancing  as  his 
sisters,  and  feared  he  should  not  procure  one  ; but  luckily  there 
were  fewer  gentlemen  than  ladies  present,  and  a lady  having 
stood  up  with  his  youngest  sister,  he  easily  prevailed  on  her  to 
change  her  partner. 


^55  THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

‘‘We  will  go  into  the  dancing  room,  if  you  please,”  said 
Mrs.  Macqueen  to  Amanda  ; ‘‘  that  will  amuse  without  fatiguing 
you.”  Amanda  would  rather  not  have  gone,  but  she  could  not 
say  no ; and  they  proceeded  to  it.  Lord  Mortimer  had  just 
concluded  the  dance,  and  was  standing  near  the  door  in  a pen- 
sive attitude,  Miss  Macqueen  being  too  much  engrossed  by 
something  she  was  saying  to  the  young  lady  next  to  her,  to  mind 
him.  The  moment  he  perceived  Amanda  enter,  he  again 
approached  his  partner,  and  began  chatting  in  a lively  manner 
to  her.  Amanda  and  Mrs.  Macqueen  sat  down  together,  and 
in  listening  to  the  conversation  of  that  lady,  Amanda  found  her- 
self insensibly  drawn  from  a too  painful  attention  to  surround- 
ing objects.  On  expressing  the  pleasure  which  a mind  of  sen- 
sibility must  feel  on  witnessing  such  family  happiness  as  Mrs. 
Macqueen  possessed,  that  lady  said  she  had  reason  indeed  to 
be  grateful  to  Heaven,  and  was  truly  so  for  her  domestic  com- 
forts. “You  see  us  now,”  she  continued,  “in  our  gayest 
season,  because  of  my  sons’  company ; but  we  are  seldom  dull. 
Though  summer  is  delightful,  we  never  think  the  winter  tedious.' 
Yet  though  we  love  amusement,  I assure  you  wc  dislike  dissipa- 
tion. The  mornings  are  appropriated  to  business,  and  the 
evenings  to  recreation.  All  the  work  of  the  family  goes  through 
the  hands  of  my  daughters,  and  they  wear  nothing  ornamental 
which  they  do  not  make  themselves.  Assisted  by  their  good 
neighbors,  they  are  enabled  to  diversify  their  amusements  : the 
dance  succeeds  the  concert ; sometimes  small  plays,  and  now 
and  then  little  dramatic  entertainments.  About  two  years  ago 
they  performed  the  Winter’s  Tale ; their  poor  father  was  not 
then  in  his  present  situation.”  Mrs.  Macqueen  sighed,  paused 
a minute,  and  then  proceeded — “ Time  must  take  something 
from  us  : but  I should  and  do  bless,  with  heartfelt  gratitude,  the 
power  which  only,  by  its  stealing  hand,  has  made  me  feel  the 
lot  of  human  nature.  Mr.  Macqueen,”  continued  she,  “ at  the 
time  I mentioned,  was  full  of  spirits,  and  performed  the  part  of 
Autolycus.  They  made  me  take  the  character  of  the  good 
Paulina.  By  thus  Inixing  in  the  amusements  of  our  children, 
we  have  added  to  their  love  and  reverence  perfect  confidence 
and  esteem,  and  find,  when  our  presence  is  wanting,  the  diver- 
sion. let  it  be  what  it  may,  wants  something  to  render  it  com- 
plete. They  are  now  about  acting  the  Gentle  Shepherd. 
Several  rehearsals  have  already  taken  place  in  our  great  barn, 
which  is  the  theatre.  On  these  occasions  one  of  my  sons 
leads  the  band,  another  paints  the  scenes,  and  Colin,  your  re- 
jected partner,  acts  the  part  of  prompter,”  Here  this  con-* 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


4S» 

versation,  so  pleasing  to  Amanda,  and  interesting  to  Mrs.  Mac 
queen,  was  interrupted  by  a message  from  the  drawing-room^ 
to  inform  the  latter  the  rubber  was  over,  and  a new  set  wanted 
to  cut  in. 

‘‘  I will  return  as  soon  as  possible,”  said  Mrs.  Macqueen, 
as  she  was  quitting  her  seat.  If  Amanda  had  not  dreaded  ths 
looks  of  Lady  Martha  almost  as  much  as  those  of  Lord  Mortl 
mer  or  Lady  Araminta,  she  would  have  followed  her  to  thi 
drawing-room.  As  this  was  the  case,  she  resolved  on  remain- 
ing in  her  present  situation.  It  was  some  time  ere  she  wao 
observed  by  the  young  Macqueens.  At  last  Miss  Macqueen 
came  over  to  her — “I  declare,”  said  she,  ‘‘you  look  so  sad 
and  solitary,  I wish  you  could  be  prevailed  on  to  dance.  Do 
try  this  ; it  is  a very  fine  lively  one,  and  take  Flora  for  your 
partner,  who,  you  see,  has  sat  in  a corner  quite  discomposed 
since  she  lost  her  partner,  and  by  the  next  set  Colin  will  be 
disengaged.” 

Amanda  declared  she  could  not  dance,  and  Miss  Macqueen 
being  called  to  her  place  at  the  instant,  she  was  again  left  to 
herself.  Miss  Macqueen,  however,  continued  to  come  and  chat 
with  her  whenever  she  could  do  so  without  losing  any  part  of 
the  dance.  At  last  Lord  Mortimer  followed  her.  The  eyes  of 
Amanda  were  involuntarily  bent  to  the  ground  when  she  saw 
him  approach: — “You  are  an  absolute  runaway,”  cried  he  to 
Miss  Macqueen  ; “ how  do  you  suppose  I will  excuse  your  fre- 
quent desertions  ? ” 

“ Why,  Miss  Donald  is  so  lonely,”  said  she. 

“ See,”  cried  he,  with  quickness,  “ your  sister  beckons  you 
to  her.  Suffer  me  (taking  her  hand)  to  lead  you  to  her.” 

Amanda  looked  up  as  they  moved  from  her,  and  saw  Lord 
Mortimer’s  head  half  turned  back ; but  the  instant  she  per- 
ceived him  he  averted  it,  and  took  no  further  notice  of  her. 
When  the  set  was  finished.  Miss  Macqueen  returned  to  Aman 
da,  and  was  followed  by  some  of  her  brothers  and  sisters. 
Some  of  the  gentlemen  also  approached  Amanda,  and  requested 
the  honor  of  her  hand,  but  she  was  steady  in  refusing  all.  Rich 
wines,  sweetmeats,  and  warm  lemonade,  were  now  handed 
about  in  profusion,  and  the  strains  of  the  violin  were  succeeded 
by  those  of  the  bagpipe,  played  by  the  family  musician,  vener- 
able in  his  appearance,  and  habited  in  the  ancient  Highland 
dress.  With  as  much  satisfaction  to  himself  as  to  his  Scotch 
auditors,  he  played  a lively  Scotch  reel,  wLich  in  a moment 
brought  two  of  the  Miss  Macqueens  and  two  gentlemen  forward, 
and  they  continued  the  dance  till  politeness  induced  them  to 


riTE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


458 

Stop,  that  one  might  be  begun  in  which  the  rest  of  the  party 
could  join.  Dancing  continued  in  this  manner  with  little  inter- 
mission, but  whenever  there  was  an  interval,  the  young  Mac- 
queens  paid  every  attention  to  Amanda ; and  on  her  express- 
ing her  admiration  of  the  Scotch  music,  made  it  a point  that 
she  should  mention  some  favorite  airs  that  they  might  be  played 
for  her  ; but  these  airs,  the  lively  dances,  the  animated  conver- 
sation, and  the  friendly  attentions  paid  her,  could  not  remove 
her  dejection,  and  with  truth  they  might  have  said — 

“That  nothing  could  a charm  impart 
To  soothe  the  stranger’s  woe.” 

The  entrance  of  Mrs.  Macqueen  was  the  signal  for  the 
dance  being  ended.  She  made  the  young  people  sit  down  to 
refresh  themselves  before  supper,  and  apologized  to  Amanda 
for  not  returning  to  her ; but  said  Lady  Martha  Dormer  had 
engaged  her  in  a conversation  which  she  could  not  interrupt. 
At  last  they  were  summoned  to  supper,  which,  on  Mr.  Mac- 
queen’s  account,  was  laid  out  in  a room  on  the  same  floor. 
Thither  without  ceremony  whoever  was  next  the  door  first  pro- 
ceeded. Mr.  Macqueen  was  already  seated  at  the  table  in  his 
arm-chair,  and  Lady  Martha  Dormer  on  his  right  hand.  The 
eldest  son  was  deputed  to  do  the  honors  of  the  foot  of  the  table. 
The  company  was  checkered,  and  Amanda  found  herself  be- 
tween Lord  Mortimer  and  Mr.  Colin  Macqueen  ; and  in  con- 
versing with  the  latter,  Amanda  sought  to  avoid  noticing,  or 
being  noticed  by  Lord  Mortimer ; and  his  lordship,  by  the  par- 
ticular attention  which  he  paid  Miss  Macqueen,  who  sat  on  the 
other  side,  appeared  actuated  by  the  same  wish.  The  sports  of 
the  morning  had  furnished  the  table  with  a variety  of  the  choicest 
wild  fowl, and  the  plenty  and  beauty  of  the  confectionery  denoted 
at  once  the  hospitable  spirit  and  elegant  taste  of  the  mistress  of 
the  feast.  Gayety  presided  at  the  board,  and  there  was  scarcely 
a tongue,  except  Amanda’s,  which  did  not  utter  some  lively  sally. 
The  piper  sat  in  the  lobby,  and  if  his  strains  were  not  melodious, 
they  were  at  least  cheerful.  In  the  course  of  supper.  Lord 
Mortimer  was  compelled  to  follow  the  universal  example  in 
drinking  Amanda’s  health.  Obliged  to  turn  her  looks  to  hina, 
oh ! how  did  her  heart  shrink  at  the  glance,  the  expressive 
glance  of  his  eye,  as  he  pronounced  Miss  Donald.  Unconscious 
whether  she  had  noticed  in  the  usual  manner  his  distressing 
compliment,  she  abruptly  turned  to  young  Macqueen,  and  ad- 
dressed some  scarcely  articulate  question  to  him.  The  supper 
things  removed,  the  strains  of  the  pip^r  were  .silenced,  and 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


4S9 


songs,  toasts,  and  sentiments  succeeded.  Old  Mr.  Macqueen 
set  the  example  by  a favorite  Scotch  air,  and  then  called  upon 
his  next  neighbor.  Between  the  songs,  toasts  were  called  for, 
At  last  it  came  to  Lord  Mortimer’s  turn.  Amanda  suddenl}/ 
ceased  speaking  to  young  Macqueen.  She  saw  the  glass  of 
Lord  Mortimer  filled,  and  in  the  next  moment  heard  the  name 
of  Lady  Euphrasia  Sutherland.  A feeling  like  wounded  pride 
stole  into  the  soul  of  Amanda.  She  did  not  decline  her  head 
as  before,  and  she  felt  a faint  glow  upon  her  cheek.  The  eyes 
of  Lady  Martha  and  Lady  Araminta  she  thought  directed  to 
her  with  an  expressive  meaning.  ‘‘They  think,”  cried  she, 
“ to  witness  mortification  and  disappointment  in  my  looks,  but 
they  shall  not  (if,  indeed,  they  are  capable  of  enjoying  such  a 
triumph)  have  it.” 

At  length  she  was  called  upon  for  a song.  She  declined 
the  call ; but  Mr.  Macqueen  declared,  except  assured  she  could 
not  sing,  she  should  not  be  excused.  This  assurance,  without 
a breach  of  truth,  she  could  not  give.  She  did  not  wish  to  ap- 
pear ungrateful  to  her  kind  entertainers,  or  unsocial  in  the 
midst  of  mirth,  by  refusing  what  she  was  told  would  be  pleas- 
ing to  them  and  their  company.  She  also  wished,  from  a 
'sudden  impulse  of  pride,  to  appear  cheerful  in  those  eyes  she 
knew  were  attentively  observing  her,  and  therefore,  after  a little 
hesitation,  consented  to  sing.  The  first  song  which  occurred  to 
her  was  a little  simple,  but  pathetic  air,  which  her  father  used 
to  delight  in,  and  which  Lord  Mortimer  more  than  once  had 
heard  from  her  ; but  indeed  she  could  recollect  no  song  which 
at  some  time  or  other  she  had  not  sung  for  him.  The  simple 
air  she  had  chosen  seemed  perfectly  adapted  to  her  soft  voice, 
whose  modulations  were  inexpressibly  affecting.  She  had  pro- 
ceeded through  half  the  second  verse,  when  her  voice  began 
to  falter.  The  attention  of  the  company  became,  if  possible, 
more  fixed  ; but  it  was  a vain  attention  ; no  rich  strain  of  melody 
repaid  it,  for  the  voice  of  the  songstress  had  suddenly  ceased. 
Mrs.  Macqueen,  with  the  delicacy  of  a susceptible  mind,  feared 
increasing  her  emotion  by  noticing  it,  and,  with  a glance  of  her 
expressive  eye,  directed  her  company  to  silence.  Amanda’s 
eyes  were  bent  to  the  ground.  Suddenly  a glass  of  water  was 
presented  to  her  by  a trembling  hand — by  the  hand  of  Mortimer 
himself.  She  declined  it  with  a motion  of  hers,  and,  reviving 
a little,  raised  her  head.  Young  Macqueen  then  gave  her  an 
entreating  whisper  to  finish  the  song.  She  thought  it  would 
look  like  affectation  to  require  farther  solicitation,  and,  faintly 
smiling,  again  began  in  strains  of  liquid  melody,  strains  that 


460  T^IR  CHILDREN  QE  THE  ABBEY, 

seemed  to  breathe  the  very  spirit  of  sensibility,  and  came  over 
each  attentive  ear, 

" Like  a sweet  sound 
That  breathes  upon  a bank  of  violets 
Stealing  and  giving  odor.” 

The  plaudits  she  received  from  her  singing  gave  to  her 
cheeks  such  a faint  tinge  of  red  as  is  seen  in  the  bosom  of  the 
wild  rose.  She  was  now  authorized  to  call  for  a song,  and,  as 
if  doomed  to  experience  cause  for  agitation,  Lord  Mortimer 
was  the  person  from  whom,  in  the  rotation  of  the  table,  she 
was  to  claim  it.  Thrice  she  was  requested  to  do  this  ere  she 
could  obey.  At  last  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face,  which  was 
now  turned  towards  her,  and  she  saw  in  it  a confusion  equal  to 
that  she  herself  trembled  under.  Pale  and  red  by  turns,  he  ap- 
peared to  her  to  wait  in  painful  agitation  for  the  sound  of  her 
voice.  Her  lips  moved,  but  she  could  not  articulate  a word. 
Lord  Mortimer  bowed,  as  if  he  had  heard  what  they  would  have 
said,  and  then  turning  abruptly  to  Miss  Macqueen,  began  speak- 
ing to  her. 

‘‘  Come,  come,  my  lord,'^  said  Mr.  Macqueen,  we  must 
not  be  put  off  in  this  manner.” 

Lord  Mortimer  laughed,  and  attempted  to  rally  the  old 
gentleman  ; but  he  seemed  unequal  to  the  attempt,  for,  with  a 
sudden  seriousness,  he  declared  his  inability  of  complying  with 
the  present  demand.  All  farther  solicitation  on  the  subject 
was  immediately  dropped.  In  the  round  of  toasts,  they  forgot 
not  to  call  upon  Amanda  for  one.  If  she  had  listened  atten- 
tively when  Lord  Mortimer  was  about  giving  one,  no  less  at- 
tentively did  he  now  listen  to  her.  She  hesitated  a moment, 
and  then  gave  Sir  Charles  Bingley.  After  the  toast  had  passed. 
Sir  Charles  Bingley,”  repeated  Miss  Macqueen,  leaning  for- 
ward, and  speaking  across  Lord  Mortimer.  Oh  1 I recollect 
him  very  well.  His  regiment  was  quartered  about  two  years 
ago  at  a little  fort  some  distance  from  this — and  I remember 
his  coming  with  a shooting  party  to  the  mountains,  and  sleep- 
ing one  night  here.  We  had  a delightful  dance  that  evening, 
and  all  thought  him  a charming  young  man.  Pray,  are  you 
well  acquainted  with  him  ? ” “Yes — No,”  replied  Amanda. 

“ Ah  ! I believe  you  are,  sly  girl,”  cried  Miss  Macqueen, 
laughing.  “ Pray,  my  lord,  does  not  that  blush  declare  Miss 
Donald  guilty  ? ” “ We  are  not  always  to  judge  from  the  coun- 

tenance,” said  he,  darting  a penetrating  yet  quickly-withdrawn 
glance  at  Amanda.  “ Experience,”  continued  he,  “ dail*" 
proves  how  little  dependence  is  to  be  placed  on  it.”  Ani^^in 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


461 


^med  hastily  away,  and  pretended,  by  speaking  to  young  Mac- 
queen,  not  to  notice  a speech  she  knew  directly  pointed  at  her; 
for  often  had  Lord  Mortimer  declared  that,  ‘‘  in  the  lineaments 
of  the  human  face  divine,  each  passion  of  the  soul  might  be  well 
traced.’^ 

Miss  Macqueen  laughed,  and  said  she  always  judged  of  the 
countenance,  and  that  her  likings  and  dislikings  were  always 
the  effects  of  first  sight. 

The  company  broke  up  soon  after  this,  and  much  earlier 
than  their  usual  hour,  on  account  of  the  travellers.  All  but 
those  then  immediately  belonging  to  the  family  having  departed, 
some  maids  of  the  house  appeared,  to  show  the  ladies  to  their 
respective  chambers.  Lady  Martha  and  Lady  Araminta  re- 
tired first.  Amanda  was  following  them,  when  Mrs.  Macqueen 
detained  her,  to  try  and  prevail  on  her  to  stay  two  or  three 
days  along  with  them.  The  Miss  Macqueens  joined  their 
mother ; but  Amanda  assured  them  she  could  not  comply  with 
their  request,  though  she  felt  with  gratitude  its  friendly  warmth. 
Old  Mr.  Macqueen  had  had  his  chair  turned  to  the  fire,  and 
his  sons  and  Lord  Mortimer  were  surrounding  it.  “ Well, 
well,’^  said  he,  calling  Amanda  to  him,  and  taking  her  hand, 
‘‘  if  you  will  not  stay  with  us  now,  remember,  on  your  return, 
we  shall  lay  an  embargo  on  you.  In  the  mean  time,  I shall 
not  lose  the  privilege  which  my  being  an  old  married  man 
gives  me.^’  So  saying,  he  gently  pulled  Amanda  to  him,  and 
kissed  her  cheek.  She  could  only  smile  at  this  innocent  free- 
dom, but  she  attempted  to  withdraw  her  hand  to  retire.  ‘‘  Now,’* 
said  Mr.  Macqueen,  still  detaining  it,  “ are  all  these  young 
men  half  mad  with  envy  ? ” The  young  Macqueens  joined  in 
their  father’s  gallantry,  and  not  a tongue  was  silent  except 
Lord  Mortimer’s.  His  head  rested  on  his  hand,  and  the  cor- 
nice of  the  chimney  supported  his  arm.  His  hair,  from  which 
the  dancing  had  almost  shaken  all  the  powder,  hung  negli- 
gently about  his  face,  and  added  to  its  paleness  and  sudden 
dejection.  One  of  the  young  Macqueens,  turning  from  his 
brothers,  who  were  yet  continuing  their  mirth  with  their  father, 
addressed  some  question  to  his  lordship,  but  received  no  an- 
swer. Again  he  repeated  it.  Lord  Mortimer  then  suddenly 
started,  as  if  from  a profound  reverie,  and  apologized  for  his 
absence. 

Ay,  ah,  my  lord,”  exclaimed  old  Mr.  Macqueen,  jocosely, 
“ we  may  all  guess  where  your  lordship  was  then  travelling  in 
idea — a little  beyond  the  mountains,  I fancy.  Ay,  we  all  know 
where  your  heart  and  your  treasure  aow  lie.  “ Do  you  ? ” said 


mu  CUP D REN-  OE  THE  ABBEY. 


462 

Lord  Mortimer,  with  a tone  of  deep  dejection,  and  a heaw» 
^igh,  with  an  air,  also,  which  seemed  to  declare  him  scarce!^ 
conscious  of  what  he  said.  He  recollected  himself,  howeve 
at  the  instant,  and  began  rallying  himself,  as  the  surest  mean* 
of  preventing  others  doing  so.  The  scene  was  too  painful  p 
Amanda.  She  hastily  withdrew  her  hand,  and,  faintly  wishing, 
the  party  a good-night,  went  out  to  the  maid,  who  was  waiting 
for  her  in  the  lobby,  and  was  conducted  to  her  room.  She. 
dismissed  the  servant  at  the  door,  and,  throwing  herself  into  a 
/hair,  availed  herself  of  solitude  to  give  vent  to  the  tears  whose 
gainful  suppression  had  so  long  tortured  her  heart.  She  had 
uot  sat  long  in  this  situation  when  she  heard  a gentle  tap  at 
fte  door.  She  started,  and  believing  it  to  be  one  of  the  Miss 
Macqueens,  hastily  wiped  away  her  tears,  and  opened  the  door. 
A female  stranger  appeared  at  it,  who  curtseying,  respectfully 
said,  “ Lady  Martha  Dormer,  her  lady,  desired  to  see  Miss 
Donald  for  a few  minutes,  if  not  inconvenient  to  her.’’  ‘‘  See 
me  ! repeated  Amanda,  with  the  utmost  surprise  ; “ can  it  be 
possible } ” She  suddenly  checked  herself,  and  said,  “ she 
would  attend  her  ladyship  immediately.  She  accordingly  fob 
lowed  the  maid,  a variety  of  strange  ideas  crowding  upon  her 
mind.  Her  conductress  retired  as  she  shut  the  door  of  the 
room  into  which  she  showed  Amanda.  It  was  a small  ante- 
chamber adjoining  the  apartment  Lady  Martha  was  to  lie  in. 
Here,  with  increasing  surprise,  she  beheld  Lord  Mortimer 
pacing  the  room  in  an  agitated  manner.  His  back  was  to  the 
door  as  she  entered,  but  he  turned  round  with  quickness,  ap- 
proached, looked  on  her  a few  moments,  then,  striking  his  hand 
suddenly  against  his  forehead,  turned  from  her  with  an  air  of 
distraction. 

Lady  Martha,  who  was  sitting  at  the  head  of  the  room,  and 
only  bowed  as  Amanda  entered  it,  motioned  for  her  to  take  a 
chair;  a motion  Amanda  gladly  obeyed,  for  her  trembling 
limbs  could  scarcely  support  her. 

All  was  silent  for  a few  minutes.  Lady  Martha  then  spoke 
in  a grave  voice  : — ‘‘  I should  not,  madam,  have  taken  the  lib- 
erty of  sending  for  you  at  this  hour,  but  that  I believe  so  favor- 
able an  opportunity  would  not  again  have  occurred  of  speaking 
to  you  on  a subject  particularly  interesting  to  me — an  oppor- 
tunity which  has  so  unexpectedly  saved  me  the  trouble  of  try- 
ing to  find  you  out,  and  the  necessity  of  writing  to  you.” 

Lady  Martha  paused,  and  her  silence  was  not  interrupted 
by  Amanda,  “ Last  summer,”  continued  Lady  Martha — again 
3he  paused.  The  throbbings  of  Amanda’s  heart  became  more 


THE  Cn/LDREH  OF  THE  ABBEY.  463 

dolent  '^Last  summer/’  she  said  again,  there  were  some 
little  gifts  presented  to  you  by  Lord  Mortimer.  From  the 
efents  which  followed  their  acceptance,  I must  presume  they 
are  valueless  to  you : from  the  events  about  taking  place,  they 
are  of  importance  elsewhere.”  She  ceased,  but  Amanda  could 
make  no  reply. 

‘‘  You  cannot  be  ignorant,”  said  Lady  Martha,  with  some- 
thing of  severity  in  her  accent,  as  it  offended  by  the  silence  of 
Amanda, — “ you  cannot  be  ignorant,  I suppose,  that  it  is  the 
picture  and  ring  I allude  to.  The  latter,  from  being  a family 
one  of  particular  value,  I always  destined  for  the  wife  of  Lord 
Mortimer ; I therefore  claim  it  in  my  own  name.  The  picture, 
I have  his  lordship’s  approbation  and  authority  to  demand  ; 
and  to  convince  you  I have, — indeed,  if  such  a conviction  be 
necessary, — have  prevailed  on  him  to  be  present  at  this  con- 
versation.” “ No,  madam,  such  a conviction  was  not  neces- 
sary,” cried  Amanda.  I should ” She  could  utter  no 

more  at  the  moment,  yet  tried  to  suppress  the  agonizing  feeling 
that  tumultuously  heaved  her  bosom. 

If  not  convenient  to  restore  them  immediately,”  said  Lady 
Martha,  ‘‘  I will  give  you  a direction  where  they  may  be  left  in 
London,  to  which  place  Mrs.  Macqueen  has  informed  me  you 
are  going.”  “ It  is  perfectly  convenient  now  to  restore  them, 
madam,”  replied  Amanda,  with  a voice  perfectly  recovered, 
animated  with  conscious  innocence  and  offended  pride,  which 
always  gave  her  strength.  ‘‘  I shall  return,”  continued  she, 
moving  to  the  door,  “ with  them  immediately  to  your  ladyship.” 

The  picture  was  suspended  from  her  neck,  and  the  ring  in 
its  case  lay  in  her  pocket ; but  by  the  manner  in  which  they 
had  been  asked,  or  rather  demanded  from  her,  she  felt  amidst 
the  anguish  of  her  soul  a sudden  emotion  of  pleasure  that  she 
could  directly  give  them  back.  Yet,  when  in  her  own  room  she 
hastily  untied  the  picture  from  her  neck,  pulled  the  black  rib- 
bon from  it,  and  laid  it  in  its  case,  her  grief  overcame  every 
other  feeling,  and  a shower  of  tears  fell  from  her.  ‘‘  Oh,  Mor 
timer  ! dear  Mortimer ! ” she  sighed,  ‘‘  must  I part  even  with 
this  little  shadow  ! must  I retain  no  vestige  of  happier  hours  ! 
Yet,  why — why  should  I wish  to  retain  it,  when  the  original 
will  so  soon  be  another’s.^  Yes,  if  I behold  Mortimer  again,  it 
will  be  as  the  husband  of  Lady  Euphrasia.” 

She  recollected  she  was  staying  beyond  the  expected  time, 
and  wiped  away  her  tears.  Yet,  still  she  lingered  a few  min- 
utes in  the  chamber,  to  try  to  calm  her  agitation.  She  called 
her  pride  to  her  aid  : it  inspired  her  with  fortitude,  and  she 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET.  . 


4G4 

proceedc.d  to  Lady  Martha,  determined  that  lady  should  see 
nothing  in  her  manner  which  she  could  j^ossibly  construe  into 
weakness  or  meanness.  Never  did  she  appear  more  interest- 
ing than  at  the  moment  she  re-entered  the  apartment.  The 
passion  she  had  called  to  her  aid  gave  a bright  glow  to  her 
cheeks^  and  the  traces  of  the  tears  she  had  been  shedding  ap- 
peared upon  those  glowdng  cheeks  like  dew'  on  the  silken  leaves 
of  the  rose  ere  the  sunbeams  of  the  morning  have  exhaled  it. 
Those  tears  left  an  humble  lustre  in  her  eyes,  even  more  inter- 
esting than  their  wonted  brilliancy.  Her  hair  hung  in  rich 
and  unrestrained  luxuriance — for  she  had  thrown  off  her  hat  on 
first  going  to  her  chamber — and  gave  to  the  beauty  of  her  face, 
and  the  elegance  of  her  form,  a complete  finishing. 

Here,  madam,  is  the  ring,”  cried  she,  presenting  it  to 
Lady  Martha,  ‘‘  and  here  is  the  picture,”  she  would  have 
added,  but  her  voice  faltered,  and  a tear  started  from  her  eye- 
Determined  to  conceal,  if  possible,  her  feelings,  she  hastily 
dashed  away  the  pearly  fugitive.  Lady  Martha  was  again  ex 
tending  her  hand  when  Lord  Mortimer  suddenly  started  from  a 
couch  on  which  he  had  thrown  himself,  and  snatching  the  pic- 
ture from  the  trembling  hand  that  held  it,  pulled  it  from  its 
case,  and  flinging  it  on  the  floor,  trampled  it  beneath  his  feet. 
“Thus  perish,”  exclaimed  he,  “ every  memento  of  my  attach- 
ment to  Amanda ! Oh,  wretched,  wretched  girl ! ” cried  he, 
suddenly  grasping  her  hand,  and  as  suddenly  relinquishing 
.it,  “Oh,  wretched,  wretched  girl!  you  have  undone  yourself 
and  me  1 ” He  turned  abruptly  away,  and  instantly  quitted  the 
room.  Shocked  by  his  words,  and  terrified  by  his  manner, 
Amanda  had  just  powder  to  gain  a chair.  Lady  Martha  seemed 
also  thunderstruck  ; but,  from  the  musing  attitude  in  w^hich  she 
stood,  the  deep  convulsive  suffocating  sobs  of  Amanda  soon 
called  her.  She  went  to  her,  and  finding  her  unable  to  help 
herself,  loosened  her  cravat,  bathed  her  temples  with  lavender, 
and  gave  her  water  to  drink.  These  attentions,  and  the  tears  she 
shed,  revived  Amanda.  She  raised  herself  in  her  chair,  on  which 
she  had  fallen  back,  but  was  yet  too  much  agitated  to  stand. 

“ Poor,  unhappy  young  creature  1 ” said  Lady  Martha,  “ I 
pity  you  from  my  soul ! Ah  I if  your  mind  resembled  your 
person,  what  a perfect  creature  had  you  been ! How  happy 
had  then  been  my  poor  Mortimer  I ” 

Now,  now  was  the  test,  the  shining  test  of  Amanda’s  virtuCj^ 
agonized  by  knowing  she  had  lost  the  good  opinion  of  those 
v/hom  she  loved  with  such  ardor,  esteemed  with  such  reverence* 
She  knew  by  a few  words  she  could  explain  the  appearancci:* 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


465 

which  had  deprived  her  of  his  good  opinion,  and  fully  regain  it 
’ — regain,  by  a few  words,  the  love,  the  esteem  of  her  valued, 
her  inestimable  Mortimer — the  affection,  the  protection,  of  his 
amiable  aunt  and  sister.  She  leaned  her  head  upon  her  hand, 
the  weight  on  her  bosom  became  less  oppressive ; she  raised 
her  head.  “ Of  my  innocence  I can  give  such  proofs,”  cried 
she.  Her  lips  closed,  a mortal  paleness  overspread  her  face  ; 
the  sound  of  suicide  seemed  piercing  through  her  ear ; she 
trembled  ; the  solemn,  the  dreadful  declaration  Lord  Cherbury 
had  made  of  not  surviving  the  disclosure  of  his  secret,  her  prom- 
ise of  inviolably  keeping  it,  both  rushed  upon  her  mi-nd.  She 
beheld  herself  on  the  very  v^erge  of  a tremendous  precipice,  and 
about  plunging  herself  and  a fellow-creature  into  it,  from 
whence,  at  the  tribunal  of  her  God,  she  would  have  to  answer 
for  accelerating  the  death  of  that  fellow-creature.  ‘‘  And  is  it 
by  a breach  of  faith  ? ” she  asked  herself,  “ I hope  to  be  re* 
established  in  the  opinion  of  Lord  Mortimer  and  his  relations. 
Ah  ! mistaken  idea,  and  how  great  is  the  delusion  passion 
spreads  before  our  eyes,  even  if  their  esteem  could  be  thus  re- 
gained? Oh  ! what  were  that,  or  what  the  esteem,  the  plaudits 
of  the  world,  if  those  of  my  own  heart  were  gone  forever! 
Oh  ! never ! ” cried  she,  still  to  herself,  and  raising  her  eyes  to 
Heaven.  ‘‘  Oh  ! never  may  the  pang  of  self-reproach  be  added 
to  those  which  now  oppress  me  ! ” Her  heart  at  the  moment 
formed  a solemn  vow  never,  by  any  wilful  act,  to  merit  such  a 
pang.  “ And,  oh,  my  God  ! ” she  cried,  “ forgive  thy  weak 
creature  who,  assailed  by  strong  temptation,  thought  for  a mo- 
ment of  wandering  from  the  path  of  truth  and  integrity,  which 
can  alone  conduct  her  to  the  region  where  peace  and  immortal 
glory  will  be  hers.” 

Amanda,  amidst  her  powerful  emotions,  forgot  she  was  ob- 
served, except  by  that  Being  to  whom  she  applied  for  pardon 
and  future  strength.  Lady  Martha  had  been  a silent  specta- 
tor of  her  emotions,  and,  thinking  as  she  did  of  Amanda,  could 
only  hope  that  they  proceeded  from  contrition  for  her  past  con- 
duct, forcibly  awakened  by  reflecting  on  the  deprivations  it  had 
caused  her. 

When  she  again  saw  Amanda  able  to  pay  attention,  she 
addressed  her : “ I said  I was  sorry  for  witnessing  your  dis- 
tress ; I shall  not  repeat  the  expression,  thinking  as  I now  do  ; 
I hope  that  it  is  occasioned  by  regret  for  past  errors : the  tears 
of  repentance  wash  away  the  stains  of  guilt,  and  that  heart 
must  indeed  be  callous  which  the  sigh  of  remorse  will  not  melt 
fo  pity.”  Amanda  turned  her  eyes  with  earnestness  on  Lady 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  ^ 


466 

Martha  as  she  spoke,  and  her  cheeks  were  again  tinged  with  % 
faint  glow. 

‘‘Perhaps  I speak  too  plainly,’^  cried  Lady  Martha,  witness- 
ing this  glow,  and  imputing  it  to  resentment ; “ but  I have  ever 
liked  the  undisguised  language  of  sincerity.  It  gave  me  pleas- 
ure,’' she  continued,  “ to  hear  you  had  been  in  employment  at 
Mrs.  Duncan’s,  but  that  pleasure  was  destroyed  by  hearing  you 
were  going  to  London,  though  to  seek  your  brother ; Mrs.  Dun- 
can has  informed  Mrs.  Macqueen,  If  this  were  indeed  the 
motive,  there  are  means  of  inquiring  without  taking  so  impru- 
dent a step.”  “ Imprudent ! ” repeated  Amanda,  involuntari- 
ly. “ Yes,”  cried  Lady  Martha,  “ a journey  so  long,  without  a 
protector,  to  a young,  I must  add,  a lovely  woman,  teems  with 
danger,  from  which  a mind  of  delicacy  would  shrink  appalled. 
If,  indeed,  you  go  to  seek  your  brother,  and  he  regards  you  as 
he  should,  he  would  rather  have  you  neglect  him  (though  that 
you  need  not  have  done  by  staying  with  Mrs.  Duncan),  than 
run  ii:^o  the  way  of  insults.  No  emergency  in  life  should  lead 
us  to  do  an  improper  thing ; as  trying  to  produce  good  by  evil 
is  impious,  so  trying  to  produce  pleasure  by  imprudence  is  folly ; 
they  are  trials,  however  flatteringly  they  may  commence,  which 
are  sure  to  end  in  sorrow  and  disappointment. 

“ You  will,”  continued  Lady  Martha,  “ if  indeed  anxious  to 
escape  from  any  farther  censure  than  what  has  already  fallen 
upon  you,  return  to  Mrs.  Duncan,  when  I inform  you  (if  indeed 
you  are  already  ignorant  of  it)  that  Colonel  Belgrave  passed 
this  road  about  a month  ago,  on  his  way  from  a remote  part  of 
Scotland  to  London,  where  he  now  is.”  “ I cannot  help,”  said 
Amanda,  “ the  misconstructions  which  may  be  put  on  my  ac- 
tions ; I can  only  support  myself  under  the  pain  they  inflict  by 
conscious  rectitude.  I am  shocked,  indeed,  at  the  surmises 
entertained  about  me,  and  a wretch  whom  my  soul  abhorred 
from  the  moment  I knew  his  real  principles.” 

“ If,”  said  Lady  Martha,  “your  journey  is  really  not  prompt 
ed  by  the  intention  of  seeing  your  brother,  you  heighten  every 
other  by  duplicity.”  “You  are  severe,  madam,”  exclaimed 
Amanda,  in  whose  soul  the  pride  of  injured  innocence  was 
again  reviving. 

“If  I probe  the  wound,”  cried  Lady  Martha.  “I  would 
also  wish  to  heal  it.  It  is  the  wish  I feel  of  saving  a young 
creature  from  further  error,  of  serving  a being  once  so  valued 
by  him  who  possesses  my  first  regard,  that  makes  me  speak  as 
I now  do.  Return  to  Mrs.  Duncan’s,  prove  in  one  instance  at 
least  you  do  not  deserve  suspicion.  She  is  your  friend,  and  in 


THE  CHILDREN-  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


467 

your  situation  a friend  is  too  precious  a treasure  to  run  the 
risk  of  losing  it  with  her ; as  she  lives  retired,  there  will  be  little 
danger  of  your  history  or  real  name  being  discovered,  which  I 
am  sorry  you  dropped,  let  your  motive  for  doing  so  be  what  it 
may,  for  the  detection  of  one  deception  makes  us  suspect  every 
other.  Return,  I repeat,  to  Mrs.  Duncan’s,  and  if  you  want  any 
inquiries  made  about  your  brother,  dictate  them,  and  I will  take 
care  they  shall  be  made,  and  that  you  shall  know  their  result.” 

Had  Amanda’s  .motive  for  a journey  to  London  been  only 
to  seek  her  brother,  she  would  gladly  have  accepted  this  offer, 
thus  avoiding  the  imputation  of  travelling  after  Belgrave,  or  of 
going  to  join  him,  the  hazard  of  encountering  him  in  London, 
and  the  dangers  of  so  long  a journey ; but  the  affair  of  the  will 
required  expedition,  and  her  own  immediate  presence — an  af- 
fair the  injunction  of  Lady  Dunreath  had  prohibited  her  dis- 
closing to  any  one  who  could  not  immediately  forward  it,  and 
which,  if  such  an  injunction  never  existed,  she  could  not  with 
propriety  have  divulged  to  Lady  Martha,  who  was  so  soon  to 
be  connected  with  a family  so  materially  concerned  in  it,  and 
in  whose  favor,  on  account  of  her  nephew’s  connection  with 
them,  it  was  probable  she  might  be  biassed. 

Amanda  hoped  and  believed  that  in  a place  so  large  as 
London,  and  with  her  assumed  name  (which  she  now  resolved 
not  to  drop  till  in  a more  secure  situation),  she  should  escape 
Belgrave.  As  to  meeting  him  on  the  road  she  had  not  the 
smallest  apprehension  concerning  that,  naturally  concluding 
that  he  never  would  have  taken  so  long  a journey  as  he  had 
lately  done,  if  he  could  have  stayed  but  a few  weeks  away. 
Time,  she  trusted,  would  prove  the  falsity  of  the  inference, 
which  she  already  was  informed  would  be  drawn  from  her 
persevering  in  her  journey.  She  told  Lady  Martha  “ that 
she  thanked  her  for  her  kind  offer,  but  must  decline  it,  as  the 
line  of  conduct  she  had  marked  out  for  herself  rendered  it  un- 
necessary whose  innocence  would  yet  be  justified,”  she  added. 
Lady  Martha  shook  her  head  ; the  consciousness  of  having  ex- 
cited suspicions  which  she  could  not  justify,  had  indeed  given 
to  the  looks  of  Amanda  a confusion  when  she  spoke  which  con- 
firmed them  in  Lady  Martha’s  breast.  ‘‘  I am  sorry  for  your 
determination,”  said  she,  but  notwithstanding  it  is  so  con- 
trary to  my  ideas  of  what  is  right,  I cannot  let  you  depart  with- 
out telling  you  that,  should  you  at  any  time  want  or  require 
services,  which  you  would,  or  could  not,  ask  from  strangers,  or 
perhaps  expect  them  to  perform,  acquaint  me,  and  command 
mine;  yet,  in  doing  justice  to  my  own  feelings,  I must  not  do 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


468 

injustice  to  the  noble  ones  of  Lord  Mortimer,  It  is  by  his  de- 
sire, as  well  as  my  own  inclination,  I now'  speak  to  you  in  this 
manner,  though  past  events,  and  the  situation  he  is  about  en- 
tering into,  must  forever  preclude  his  personal  interference  in 
your  affairs.  He  could  never  hear  the  daughter  of  Captain 
Fitzalan  suffered  inconveniency  of  any  kind,  without  wishing, 
without  having  her,  indeed,  if  possible,  extricated  from  it.'’ 
‘‘  Oh ! madam,”  cried  Amanda,  unable  to  repress  her  gushing 
tears,  “ I am  already  well  acquainted  with  fhe  noble  feelings  of 
Lord  Mortimer,  already  oppressed  with  a weight  of  obligations.” 
Lady  Martha  w^as  affected  by  her  energy ; her  eyes  grew 
humid,  and  her  voice  softened.  “ Error  in  you  will  be  more 
inexcusable  than  in  others,”  cried  Lady  Martha,  “because, 
like  too  many  unhappy  creatures,  you  cannot  plead  the  deser- 
tion of  all  the  world.  To  regret  past  errors,  be  they  what  they 
may,  is  to  insure  my  assistance  and  protection,  if  both,  or 
either,  are  at  any  time  required  by  you.  Was  I even  gone,  I 
should  take  care  to  leave  a substitute  behind  me  who  should 
fulfil  my  intentions  towards  you,  and  by  so  doing  at  once  soothe 
and  gratify  the  feelings  of  Lord  Mortimer.”  “ I thank  you, 
madam,”  cried  Amanda,  rising  from  he\  chair,  and,  as  she 
wiped  away  her  tears,  summoning  all  her  fortitude  to  her  aid, 
“for  the  interest  you  express  about  me;  the  time  may  yet 
come,  perhaps,  when  I shall  prove  I never  was  unworthy  of 
exciting  it — when  the  notice  now  offered  from  compassion  may 
be  tendered  from  esteem — then,”  continued  Amanda,  who 
could  not  forbear  this  justice  to  herself,  “ the  pity  of  Lady 
Martha  Dormer  wall  not  humble  but  exalt  me,  because  then  I 
shall  know  that  it  proceeded  from  that  generous  sympathy 
which  one  virtuous  mind  feels  for  another  in  distress.”  She 
moved  to  the  door.  “ How  lamentable,”  said  Lady  Martha, 
“ to  have  such  talents  misapplied  ! ” “ Ah  ! madam,”  cried 

Amanda,  stopping,  and  turning  mournfully  to  her,  “ I find  you 
are  inflexible.” 

Lady  Martha  shook  her  head,  and  Amanda  had  laid  her 
hand  upon  the  lock,  when  Lady  Martha  said  suddenly,  “ There 
were  letters  passed  between  you  and  Lord  Mortimer.”  Amanda 
bowed.  “They  had  better  be  mutually  returned,”  said  Lady 
Martha.  “ Do  you  seal  up  his  and  send  them  to  Lord  Cher- 
bary’s  house  in  London,  directed  to  me,  and  I will  pledge 
myself  to  have  yours  returned.”  “ You  shall  be  obeyed, 
madam,”  replied  Xmanda,  in  a low,  broken  voice,  after  the 

{)ause  of  a moment.  Lady  Martha  then  said  she  would  no 
ouger  encroach  upon  her  rest  and  she  retired. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


4691 

In  her  chamber,  the  feelings  she  had  so  long,  so  painfully 
tried  to  suppress,  broke  forth  without  again  meeting  opposi- 
tion. The  pride  which  had  given  her  transient  animation  was 
no  more ; for,  as  past  circumstances  arose  to  recollection,  she 
could  not  wonder  at  her  being  condemned  from  them.  She 
no  longer  accused  Lady  Martha  in  her  mind  of  severity — no 
longer  felt  offended  with  her  ; but,  oh  ! Mortimer,  the  bitter 
tears  she  shed  fell  not  for  herself  alone ; she  wept  to  think  thy 
destiny,  though  more  prosperous,  was  not  less  unhappy  than 
her  own ; for  in  thy  broken  accents,  thy  altered  looks,  she  per- 
ceived a passion  strong  and  sincere  as  ever  for  her,  and  well 
she  knew  Lady  Euphrasia  not  calculated  to  soothe  a sad  heart, 
or  steal  an  image  from  it  which  corroded  its  felicity.  Rest, 
after  the  incidents  of  the  evening,  was  not  to  be  thought  of, 
but  nature  was  exhausted,  and  insensibly  Amanda  sunk  upon 
the  bed  in  a de'^p  sleep — so  insensibly,  that  when  she  awoka 
which  was  not  till  the  morning  was  pretty  far  advanced,  she 
felt  surprised  at  her  situation.  She  felt  cold  and  unrefreshed 
Irom  having  lain  in  her  clothes  all  night,  and  when  she  went  to 
adjust  her  dress  at  the  glass,  was  surprised  at  the  pallidness  of 
her  looks.  Anxious  to  escape  a second  painful  meeting,  she 
went  to  the  windov/  to  see  if  the  chaise  was  come,  but  was  dis* 
appointed  on  finding  that  she  had  slept  at  the  back  of  the  house. 
She  heard  no  noise,  and  concluded  the  family  had  not  yet 
risen  after  the  amusements  of  the  preceding  night,  sat  down  by 
the  window  which  looked  into  a spacious  garden,  above  which 
rose  romantic  hills  that  formed  a screen  for  some  young  and 
beautiful  plantations  that  lay  between  them  and  the  garden  ; 
but  the  misty  tops  of  the  hills,  the  varied  trees  which  autumn 
spread  over  the  plantations,  nor  the  neat  appearance  of  the 
garden,  had  power  to  amuse  the  imagination  of  Amanda.  Her 
patience  was  exhausted  after  sitting  some  time,  and  going  to 
the  door  she  softly  opened  it,  to  try  if  she  could  hear  any  one 
stirring.  She  had  not  stood  long,  when  the  sound  of  footsteps 
and  voices  rose  from  below.  She  instantly  quitted  her  room,  and 
descended  the  stairs  into  a small  hall,  across  which  was  a folding- 
door  ; this  she  gently  opened,  and  found  it  divided  the  hall  she 
stood  in  from  the  one  that  was  spacious  and  lofty,  and  which 
her  passing  through  the  preceding  night  before  it  was  lighted 
up,  had  prevented  her  taking  notice  of.  Here,  at  a long  table, 
were  the  men  servants  belonging  to  the  family,  and  the  guests 
assembled  at  breakfast,  the  piper  at  the  head,  like  the  king  of 
the  feast.  Amanda  stepped  back  the  moment  she  perceived 
them,  well  knowing  Lord  Mortimer's  servants  would  recollect 


470 


THE  CHILDREN  OE  THE  ABBEY. 


her,  and  was  ascending  the  stairs  to  her  room  to  ring  for  one 
of  the  maids,  when  a servant  hastily  followed  her,  and  said 
the  family  were  already  in  the  breakfast-room.  At  the  same 
moment,  Mr.  Colin  Macqueen  came  from  a parlor  which  opened 
into  the  little  hall,  and  paying  Amanda,  in  a lively  and  affec- 
tionate manner,  the  compliments  of  the  morning,  he  led  her  to 
the  parlor,  where  not  only  all  the  family  guests  who  had  lain 
in  the  house,  but  several  gentlemen,  who  had  been  with  them 
the  preceding  night,  were  assembled.  Doctor  Johnson  has 
already  celebrated  a Scotch  breakfast,  nor  was  the  one  at  which 
Mrs.  Macqueen  and  her  fair  daughters  presided  inferior  to  any 
he  had  seen.  Beside  chocolate,  tea,  and  coffee,  with  the  usual 
appendages,  there  were  rich  cakes,  choice  sweetmeats,  and  a 
variety  of  cold  pastry,  with  ham  and  chickens,  to  which  several 
of  the  gentlemen  did  honor.  The  dishes  were  ornamented 
with  sweet  herbs  and  wild  flowers,  gathered  about  the  feet  of 
the  mountains  and  in  the  valley,  and  by  every  guest  was  placed 
a fine  bouquet  from  the  green-house,  with  little  French  mottoes 
on  love  and  friendship  about  them,  which,  being  opened  and 
read,  added  to  the  mirth  of  the  company. 

I was  just  going  to  send  one  of  the  girls  for  you,’’  said 
Mrs.  Macqueen,  when  Amanda  had  taken  a place  at  the  table, 
“ and  would  have  done  so  before,  but  wished  you  to  get  as 
much  rest  as  possible,  after  your  fatiguing  journey.”  I assure 
you,  madam,”  said  Amanda,  “ I have  been  up  this  long  time, 
expecting  every  moment  a summons  to  the  chaise.”  ‘‘  I took 
care  of  that  last  night,”  said  Mrs.  Macqueen,  “ for  I was  deter- 
mined you  should  not  depart,  at  least  without  breakfasting.” 
Amanda  was  seated  between  Mr.  Colin  Macqueen  and  his 
eldest  sister,  and  sought,  by  conversing  with  the  former,  for  the 
latter  was  too  much  engrossed  by  the  general  gayety  to  pay 
much  attention  to  any  one,  to  avoid  the  looks  she  dreaded  to 
see.  Yet  the  sound  of  Lord  Mortimer’s  voice  affected  her  as 
much  almost  as  his  looks. 

Pray,  Lady  Martha,”  said  the  second  Miss  Macqueen,  a 
lively,  thoughtless  girl,  ‘‘will  your  ladyship  be  so  good  as  to 
guarantee  a promise  Lord  Mortimer  has  just  made  me,  or  rather 
that  I have  extorted  from  him,  which  is  the  cause  of  this  appli- 
cation ? ” “ You  must  first,  my  dear,”  answered  Lady  Martha, 

“ let  me  know  what  the  promise  is.”  “Why,  gloves  and  bridal 
favors ; but  most  unwillingly  granted,  I can  assure  your  lady- 
ship.” Amanda  was  obliged  to  set  down  the  cup  she  was 
raising  to  her  lips,  and  a glance  stole  involuntarily  from  her 
towards  Lord  Mortimer — a glance  instantly  withdrawn  when 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


47 1 

she  saw  his  eyes  in  the  same  direction.  “ I declare/'  continued 
Miss  Phoebe  Macqueen,  “ I should  do  the  favor  all  due  honor." 
‘‘I  am  sure,”  cried  Lord  Mortimer,  attempting  to  speak  cheer- 
fully, your  acceptance  of  it  will  do  honor  to  the  presenter." 
And  your  lordship  maybe  sure,  too,"  said  one  of  her  brothers, 
it  is  a favor  she  would  wish  with  all  her  heart  to  have  an 
opportunity  of  returning."  ‘‘  Oh ! in  that  she  would  not  be 
singular,"  said  a gentleman.  What  do  you  think.  Miss  Don- 
ald," cried  Colin  Macqueen,  turning  to  Amanda,  “ do  you 
imagine  she  would  not  ? " Amanda  could  scarcely  speak. 
She  tried,  however,  to  hide  her  agitation,  and,  forcing  a faint 
smile,  with  a voice  nearly  as  faint,  said,  ‘‘  that  was  not  a fair 
question."  The  Miss  Macqueens  took  upon  themselves  to 
answer  it,  and  Amanda,  through  their  means,  was  relieved  from 
farther  embarrassment. 

Breakfast  over,  Amanda  was  anxious  to  depart,  and  yet 
wanted  courage  to  be  the  first  to  move.  A charm  seemed  to  bind 
her  to  the  spot  where,  for  the  last  time,  she  should  behold  Lord 
Mortimer,  at  least  the  last  time  she  ever  expected  to  see  him 
unmarried. 

Her  dread  of  being  late  on  the  road — and  she  heard  the 
destined  stage  for  the  night  was  at  a great  distance — at  last  con- 
quered her  reluctance  to  move,  and  she  said  to  Mr.  Colin  Mac- 
queen it  was  time  for  her  to  go.  At  that  moment  Lord  Mor- 
timer rose,  and  proposed  to  the  young  Macqueens  going  with 
them  to  see  the  new  plantations  behind  the  house,  which  old 
Mr.  Macqueen  had  expressed  a desire  his  lordship  should  give 
his  opinion  of. 

All  the  young  gentlemen,  as  well  as  the  Macqueens,  Colin 
excepted,  attended  his  lordship ; nor  did  they  depart  without 
wishing  Amanda  a pleasant  journey. 

Silent  and  sad,  she  continued  in  her  chair  for  some  minutes 
after  they  quitted  the  room,  forgetful  of  her  situation,  till  the 
loud  laugh  of  the  Miss  Macqueens  restored  her  to  a recollec- 
tion of  it.  She  blushed,  and,  rising  hastily,  was  proceeding  to 
pay  her  farewell  compliments,  when  Mrs.  Macqueen,  rising, 
drew  her  to  the  window,  and  in  a low  voice  repeated  her  request 
for  Amanda’s  company  a few  days.  This  Amanda  again  de- 
clined, but  gratefully  expressed  her  thanks  for  it,  and  the  hos- 
pitality she  had  experienced.  Mrs.  Macqueen  said,  on  her  re- 
turn to  Scotland,  she  hoped  to  be  more  successful.  She  also 
added,  that  som®  of  her  boys  and  girls  would  gladly  have  ac- 
companied Amanda  a few  miles  on  her  way,  had  not  they  all 
agreed,  ere  her  arrival,  to  escort  Lord  Mortimers  party  to  an 


r/2 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


inn  at  no  great  distance,  and  take  an  early  dinner  with  them. 
She  should  write  that  day,  she  said,  to  Mrs.  Duncan,  and  thank 
her  for  having  introduced  to  her  family  a person  whose  acquaint- 
ance was  an  acquisition.  Amanda,  having  received  the  affec- 
tionate adieus  of  this  amiable  woman  and  her  daughters,  curt- 
seyed, though  with  downcast  looks,  to  Lady  Martha  and  Lady 
Araminta,  who  returned  her  salutation  with  coolness. 

Followed  by  two  of  the  Miss  Macqueens,  she  hurried  through 
the  hall,  from  which  the  servants  and  the  breakfast  things  were 
already  removed  \ but  how  was  she  distressed,  when  the  first 
object  she  saw  outside  the  door  was  Lord  Mortimer,  by  whom 
stood  Colin  Macqueen — who  had  left  the  parlor  to  see  if  the 
chaise  w^as  ready — and  one  of  his  brothers.  Hastily  would  sha 
have  stepped  forward  to  the  chaise,  had  not  the  gallantry  of  the 
young  men  impeded  her  way.  They  expressed  sorrow  at  her 
not  staying  longer  among  them,  and  hopes  on  her  return  she 
would. 

‘ Pray,  my  lord,”  cried  the  Miss  Macqueens,  while  thei’" 
brothers  were  thus  addressing  Amanda,  “ pray,  my  loid,”  almost 
in  the  same  breath,  what  have  you  done  with  the  gentlemen  ?” 
“ You  should  ask  your  brother,”  he  replied  ; ‘‘he  has  locked 
them  up  in  the  plantation.”  A frolic  was  at  all  times  pleasing 
to  the  light-hearted  Macqueens,  and  to  enjoy  the  present  one  ofl 
they  ran  directly,  followed  by  their  brothers,  all  calling,  as  they 
ran,  to  Amanda  not  to  stir  till  they  came  back,  which  would  be 
in  a few  minutes ; but  Amanda,  from  the  awkward,  the  agitating 
situation  in  which  they  had  ^eft  her,  would  instantly  have  re- 
lieved herself,  could  she  have  made  the  postilion  hear  her  ; but, 
as  if  enjoying  the  race,  he  had  gone  to  some  distance  to  vie’^ 
it,  and  none  of  the  servants  of  the  house  were  near.  Consciow 
of  her  own  emotions,  she  feared  betraying  them,  and  stepped 
few  yards  from  the  door,  pretending  to  be  engrossed  by  the 
Macqueens.  A heavy  sigh  suddenly  pierced  het  ears, 
“Amanda,”  in  the  next  moment  said  a voice  to  which  her  heart 
vibrated.  She  turned  with  involuntary  quickness  and  saw 
Lord  Mortimer  close  by  her.  “ Amanda,”  he  repeated  ; then 
suddenly  clasping  his  hands  together,  exclaimed,  with  an  agon- 
ized expression,  while  he  turned  abruptly  from  her,  “ Gracious 
Heaven  ! what  a situation ! Amanda,”  said  he,  again  looking 
at  her,  “the  scene  which  happened  las^  night  was  distressing. 
I am  now  sorry  on  your  account  that  it  took  place.  Notwith- 
standing past  events,  I bear  you  no  ill-will.  The  knowledge  of 
your  uneasiness  would  give  me  pain.  From  my  heart  I forgive 

all  tVut  you  have  caused — that  you  have  entailed  upon  me. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


473 

At  this  moment  I could  take  you  to  my  arms,  and  weep  over 
you — like  the  fond  mother  over  the  last  darling  of  her  hopes — ■ 
tears  of  pity  and  forgiveness/’ 

Amanda,  unutterably  affected,  covered  her  face  to  hide  the 
tears  which  bedewed  it. 

“ Let  me  have  the  pleasure  of  hearing,”  continued  Lord 
Mortimer,  that  you  forgive  the  uneasiness  and  pain  I might 
have  occasioned  you  last  night.”  “ Forgive ! ” repeated  Amanda. 

Oh,  my  lord,”  and  her  voice  sunk  in  the  sobs  which  heaved 
her  bosom.  “ Could  I think  you  were,  you  would  be  happy — ” 
Lord  Mortimer  stopped,  overcome  by  strong  emotions. 

Happy  ! ” repeated  Amanda  1 “ oh  ! never — never  ! ” con- 
tinued she,  raising  her  streaming  eyes  to  heaven  ; oh,  never — 
never  in  this  world  1 ” 

At  this  moment  the  Macqueens  were  not  only  heard  but 
seen  running  back,  followed  by  the  gentlemen  whom  they  had 
been  prevailed  on  to  liberate.  Shocked  at  the  idea  of  being 
seen  in  such  a situation,  Amanda  would  have  called  the  postil 
ion,  but  he  was  too  far  off  to  hear  her  weak  voice,  had  she  then 
even  been  able  to  exert  that  voice.  She  looked  towards  him, 
however,  with  an  expression  which  denoted  the  feelings  of  her 
soul.  Lord  Mortimer,  sensible  of  those  feelings,  hastily  pulled 
open  the  door  of  the  chaise,  and  taking  the  cold  and  trembling 
hand  of  Amanda  with  one  equally  cold  and  trembling,  assisted 
her  into  the  chaise,  then  pressing  the  hand  he  held  between 
both  his,  he  suddenly  let  it  drop  from  him,  and  closing  the  door 
without  again  looking  at  Amanda,  called  to  the  driver,  who  in- 
stantly obeyed  the  call,  and  had  mounted  ere  the  Macque^^^ns 
arrived.  Oh,  what  a contrast  did  their  looks,  blooming  with 
health  and  exercise,  their  gayety,  their  protected  situation,  form 
to  the  wan,  dejected,  desolate  Amanda  ! With  looks  of  surprise 
they  were  going  up  to  the  chaise,  when  Lord  Mortimer,  still 
standing  by  it,  and  anxious  to  save  his  unhappy,  lost  Amanda 
the  pain  of  being  noticed  in  such  agitation,  gave  the  man  a 
signal  to  drive  off,  which  was  instantly  obeyed. 

Thus  did  Amanda  leave  the  mansion  of  the  Macqueens, 
where  sorrow  had  scarcely  ever  before  entered  without  meeting 
alleviation,  a mansion,  where  the  stranger,  the  wayfaring  man, 
and  the  needy,  were  sure  of  a welcome,  cordial  as  benevolence 
and  hospitality  themselves  could  give  ; and  where  happiness, 
as  pure  as  in  this  sublunary  state  can  be  experienced,  was  en- 
joyed. As  she  drove  from  the  door,  she  saw  the  splendid 
equipages  of  Lord  Mortimer  and  Lady  Martha  driving  to  it. 
She  turned  from  them  with  a sigh,  at  reflecting  they  would  soon 


474 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


grace  the  bridal  pomp  of  Lady  Euphrasia.  She  pursued  the 
remainder  of  her  journey  without  meeting  anything  worthy  of 
relation.  It  was  in  the  evening  she  reached  London.  The 
moment  she  stopped  at  the  hotel  she  sent  for  a carriage,  and 
proceeded  in  it  to  Mrs.  ConneFs,  in  Bond  Street. 


CHAPTER  L. 

“ Dissembling  hope,  her  cloudy  front  she  clears, 

And  a false  vigor  in  her  eyes  appears.” — Drydbn* 

She  alighted  from  the  carriage  when  it  stopped  at  the  door, 
and  entered  the  shop,  where,  to  her  inexpressible  satisfaction, 
the  first  object  she  beheld  was  Miss  Rushbrook,  sitting  pen- 
sively at  one  of  the  counters.  The  moment  she  saw  Amanda 
she  recollected  her,  and,  starting  up,  exclaimed,  as  she  took  her 
hand,  Ah  ! dear  madam,  this  is  indeed  a joyful  surprise  I Ah  ! 
how  often  have  I wished  to  meet  you  again  to  express  my  grati- 
tude.” The  affectionate  reception  she  met,  and  the  unexpected 
sight  of  Miss  Rushbrook,  seemed  to  promise  Amanda  that  her 
wishes  relative  to  Rushbrook,  would  not  only  be  accelerated, 
but  crowned  with  success.  She  returned  the  fervent  pres- 
sure of  Miss  Rushbrook’s  hand,  and  inquired  after  her  parents 
— the  inquiry  appeared  distressing,  and  she  was  answered,  with 
hesitation,  that  th^y  were  indifferent.  The  evident  embar- 
rassment her  question  excited  prevented  her  renewing  it  at 
this  time.  The  mistress  of  the  house  was  not  present,  and 
Amanda  requested,  if  she  was  within,  she  might  see  her  directly. 
Miss  Rushbrook  immediately  stepped  to  a parlor  behind  the 
shop,  and  almost  instantly  returned,  followed  by  the  lady  her- 
self, who  was  a litde  fat  Irish  woman,  past  her  prime,  but  not 
past  her  relish  for  the  good  things  of  this  life.  Dear  madam,” 
said  she,  curtseying  to  Amanda,  ‘‘  you  are  very  welcome.  I 
protest  I am  very  glad  to  see  you,  though  I never  had  that 
pleasure  but  once  before ; but  it  is  no  wonder  I should  be  so, 
for  I have  heard  your  praises  every  day  since,  I am  sure,  from 
that  young  lady,”  looking  at  Miss  Rushbrook.  Amanda  bowed, 
but  her  heart  was  too  full  of  the  purpose  of  this  visit  to  allow 
her  to  speak  about  anything  else.  She  was  just  come  from  the 
country,  she  told  Mrs.  Connel,  where  (she  sighed  as  she  spoke) 
she  had  left  her  friends,  and  being  unwilling  to  go  amongst 


THE  CHILDREH  CF  THE  ABBEY, 

totsil  srrangers,  she  had  come  to  her  house  in  hopes  of  being 
able  to  procure  lodgings  in  it. 

“ Dear  ma’am,”  said  Mrs.  Connel,  I protest  I should  have 
been  happy  to  have  accommodated  you,  but  at  present  my 
house  is  quite  full.” 

The  disappointment  this  speech  gave  Amanda  rendered  her 
silent  for  a moment,  and  she  was  then  going  to  ask  Mrs.  Con- 
nel if  she  could  recommend  her  to  a lodging,  when  she  perceived 
Miss  Rushbrook  whispering  her.  ‘‘  Why,  madam,”  cried  the 
former,  who,  by  a nod  of  her  head,  seemed  to  approve  of  what 
the  latter  had  been  saying,  ‘‘  since  you  dislike  so  much  going 
among  strangers,  which,  indeed,  shows  your  prudence,  consider- 
ing what  queer  kind  of  people  are  in  tf  e world.  Miss  Emily 
says,  that  if  you  condescend  to  accept  of  part  of  her  little  bed, 
till  you  can  settle  yourself  more  comfortably  in  town,  you  shall 
be  extremely  welcome  to  it ; and  I can  assure  you,  madam,  I 
shall  do  everything  in  my  power  to  render  my  house  agreeable 
to  you.”  Oh,  most  joyfully,  most  thankfully,  do  I accept  the 
offer,”  said  Amanda,  whose  heart  had  sunk  at  the  idea  of  going 
amongst  strangers.  ‘‘Any  place,”  she  co  , tinned,  speaking  in 
the  fulness  of  that  agitated  heart,  “ beneath  so  reputable  a roof, 
\vould  be  an  asylum  of  comfort  I should  prefer  to  a palace,  if 
utterly  unacquainted  with  the  people  who  inhabited  it.”  Her 
trunk  was  now  brought  in,  and  the  carriage  discharged.  “ I 
suppose,  ma’am,”  said  Mrs.  Connel,  looking  at  the  trunk  on 
which  her  assumed  name  was  marked,  “ you  are  Scotch  by  your 
name,  though,  indeed,  you  have  not  much  of  the  accent  about 
you.”  “ I declare,”  cried  Emily,  also  looking  at  it,  “ till  this 
moment  I was  ignorant  of  your  name.” 

Amanda  was  pleased  to  hear  this,  and  resolved  not  to  dis- 
close her  real  one,  except  convinced  Rushbrook  would  interest 
himself  in  her  affairs.  She  was  conducted  into  the  parlor,  which 
was  neatly  furnished,  and  opened  into  the  shop  by  a glass  door. 
Mrs.  Connel  stirred  a declining  fire  into  a cheerful  blaze,  and 
desired  to  know  if  Amanda  would  choose  anything  for  dinner. 
“ Speak  the  word  only,  my  dear,”  said  she,  “ and  I think  I can 
procure  you  a cold  bone  in  the  house.  If  you  had  come  two 
hours  sooner,  I could  have  given  you  a bit  of  nice  veal  for  your 
dinner.”  Amanda  assured  her  she  did  not  wish  to  take  any- 
thing till  tea-time. 

“ Well,  well,”  cried  Mrs.  Connel,  “ you  shall  have  a snug  cup 
of  tea  by  and  by,  and  a hot  muffin  with  it.  I am  very  fond  of 
tea  myself,  though  poor  Mr.  Connel,  who  is  dead  and  gone, 
used  often  and  often  to  say,  ‘ I that  was  so  nervous  should  never 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.. 


476 

touch  tea  ‘but,  Biddy,’  he  would  say,  and  he  would  laugh  so, 
poor  dear  man,  ‘ you  and  all  your  sex  are  like  your  mother  Eve, 
unable  to  resist  temptation.’  ” 

Emily  retired  soon  after  Amanda  entered ; but  returned  in 
a few  minutes  with  her  hat  and  cloak  on,  and  said,  nothing  but 
a visit  she  must  pay  her  parents  should  have  induced  her  to 
forego,  for  the  first  evening,  at  least,  the  pleasure  of  Miss 
Donald’s  society.  Amanda  thanked  her  for  her  politeness, 
but  assured  her  if  considered  as  a restraint  she  should  be 
unhappy. 

“ I assure  you,”  said  Mrs.  Connel,  as  Emily  departed,  “ she 
is  very  fond  of  you.”  “ I am  happy  to  hear  it,”  replied 
Amanda,  “ for  I think  her  a most  amiable  girl.”  “ Indeed  she 
is,”  cried  the  other;  “all  the  fault  I find  with  her  is  being  too 
grave  for  her  time  of  life.  Poor  thing,  one  cannot  wonder  at 
that,  however,  considering  the  situation  of  her  parents.”  “ I 
hope,”  interrupted  Amanda,  “it  is  not  so  bad  as  it  was.” 
“ Bad  ! Lord  ! it  cannot  be  worse ; the  poor  captain  has  been 
in  jail  above  a year.”  “ I am  sorry,”  said  Amanda,  “ to  hear  this. 
Has  any  application  been  made  to  Lady  Greystock  since  his 
confinement ” “To  Lady  Greystock  ! why.  Lord  i one  might 
as  well  apply  to  one  of  the  wild  beasts  in  the  Tower ! Ah  ! 
poor  gentleman,  if  he  was  never  to  get  nothing  but  what  she 
gave  him,  I believe  he  would  not  long  be  a trouble  to  any  one. 
It  is  now  about  fourteen  years  since  my  acquaintance  with  him 
first  commenced.  My  poor  husband,  that  is  no  more,  and  I 
kept  a shop  in  Dublin,  where  the  captain’s  regiment  was  quar- 
tered, and  he  being  only  a lieutenant  had  not  room  enough  for 
his  family  in  the  barracks,  so  he  took  lodgings  at  our  house, 
where  Mrs.  Rushbrook  lay  in,  and  I being  with  her  now  and 
then  during  her  confinement,  a kind  of  friendship  grew  up 
amongst  us.  They  had  not  left  us  long  to  go  to  America,  when 
a relation  of  my  husband,  who  owned  this  house  and  shop,  hav- 
ing lost  his  wife,  and  being  lonesome,  without  either  chick  or 
child,  invited  us  to  come  and  live  with  him,  promising  us  if  we 
did,  to  settle  us  in  his  business,  and  leave  us  everything  he  had. 
Well,  such  offers  do  not  come  every  day ; so,  to  be  sure,  we 
took  him  at  his  word ; and  here  we  had  not  long  been  when 
the  poor  man  bid  adieu  to  all  mortal  care,  and  was  soon  followed 
by  Mr.  Connel.  Well,  to  be  sure,  I was  sad  and  solitary  enough  ; 
but  when  I thought  how  irreligious  it  was  to  break  one’s  heart 
with  grief,  I plucked  up  my  spirits  and  began  to  hold  up  my 
head  again.  So,  to  make  a short  story  of  a long  one,  about  six 
years  ago  Mrs.  Rushbrook  and  Miss  Emily  came  one  day  into 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


477 


the  shop  to  buy  something,  little  thinking  they  shouia  see  an 
old  friend.  It  was,  to  be  sure,  a meeting  of  joy  and  sorrow,  as 
one  may  say.  We  told  all  our  griefs  to  each  other,  and  I found 
things  were  very  bad  with  the  poor  captain.  Indeed  I have  a 
great  regard  for  him  and  his  family,  and  when  he  was  confined, 
I took  Emily  home  as  an  assistant  in  my  business.  The  money 
she  earned  was  to  go  to  her  parents,  and  I agreed  to  give  her 
her  clothes  gratis ; but  that  would  have  gone  but  a little  way  in 
feeding  so  many  mouths,  had  I not  procured  plain  work  for 
Mrs.  Rushbrook  and  her  daughters.  Emily  is  a very  good  girl, 
indeed,  and  it  is  to  see  her  parents  she  is  now  gone.  But  while 
I am  gabbling  away  I am  sure  the  kettle  is  boiling.”  So  saying, 
she  started  up,  and  ringing  the  bell,  took  the  tea-things  from  a 
beaufet  where  they  were  kept.  The  maid  having  obeyed  the 
well-known  summons,  then  retired ; and  as  soon  as  the  tea  was 
made,  and  the  muffins  buttered,  Mrs.  Connel  made  Amanda 
draw  her  chair  close  to  the  table,  that  she  might,  as  she  said, 
look  snug,  and  drink  her  tea  comfortably. 

“ I assure  you,  madam,”  cried  she,  “ it  was  a lucky  hour  for 
Miss  Emily  when  she  entered  my  house.”  I have  no  doubt 
of  that,”  said  Amanda.  “ You  must  know,  madam,”  proceeded 
Mrs.  Connel,  “ about  a month  ago  a gentleman  came  to  lodge 
with  me,  who  I soon  found  was  making  speeches  to  Miss  Emily. 
He  was  one  of  those  wild  looking  sparks,  who,  like  Ranger  in 
the  play,  looker?  as  if  they  would  be  popping  through  every  one’s 
doors  and  windows,  and  playing  such  tricks  as  made  poor  Mr. 
Strickland  so  jealous  of  his  wife.  Well,  I took  my  gentleman 
to  task  one  day  unawares.  ‘ So,  Mr.  Sipthorpe,’  says  I,  ‘ I am 
told  you  have  cast  a sheep’s  eye  upon  one  of  my  girls  ; but  I 
must  tell  you  she  is  a girl  of  virtue  and  family,  so  if  you  do  not 
mean  to  deal  honorably  with  her,  you  must  either  decamp  from 
this,  or  speak  to  her  no  more,’  Upon  this  he  made  me  a speech 
as  long  as  a member  of  parliament’s  upon  a new  tax.  ‘ Lord, 
Mr.  Sipthorpe,’  said  I,  there  is  no  occasion  for  all  this  oratory, 
a few  words  will  settle  the  business  between  us.’  Well,  this 
was  coming  close  to  the  point,  you  will  say,  and  he  told  me 
then  he  always  meant  to  deal  honorably  by  Miss  Emily,  and 
told  me  all  about  his  circumstances  ; and  I found  he  had  a fine 
fortune,  which  indeed  I partly  guessed  before  from  the  appear- 
ance he  made,  and  he  said  he  would  not  only  marry  Miss 
Emily,  but  take  her  parents  out  of  prison,  and  provide  for  the 
whole  family.  Well,  now  comes  the  provoking  part  of  the  story. 
A young  clergyman  h^d  been  kind  at  the  beginning  of  their 
distress  to  them,  and  he  and  Miss  Emily  took  it  into  their  heads 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


478 

to  fall  in  love  with  each  other.  Well,  her  parents  gave  their 
consent  to  their  being  married,  which  to  be  sure  I thought  a 
very  foolish  thing,  knowing  the  young  man's  inability  to  serve 
them.  To  be  sure  he  promised  fair  enough;  but,  Lord  ! what 
could  a poor  curate  do  for  them,  particularly  when  he  got  a wife 
and  a house  full  of  children  of  his  own  ? I thought ; so  I sup- 
posed they  would  be  quite  glad  to  be  off  with  him,  and  to  give 
her  to  Mr.  Sipthorpe ; but  no  such  thing  I assure  you.  When 
I mentioned  it  to  them,  one  talked  of  honor,  and  another  of 
gratitude,  and  as  to  Miss  Emily,  she  fairly  went  into  fits.  Well, 
I thought  I would  serve  them  in  spite  of  themselves,  so,  know- 
ing the  curate  to  be  a romantic  young  follow,  I writes  off  to 
him,  and  tells  him  what  a cruel  thing  it  would  be,  if,  for  his  own 
gratification,  he  kept  Miss  Emily  to  her  word,  and  made  her 
lose  a match  which  would  free  her  family  from  all  their  diffi- 
culties ; and,  in  short,  I touched  upon  his  passion  not  a little, 
I assure  you,  and,  as  I hoped,  a letter  came  from  him,  in  which 
he  told  her  he  gave  her  up.  Well,  to  be  sure  there  was  sad 
work  when  it  came — with  her,  I mean,  for  the  captain  and  his 
wife  were  glad  enough  of  it,  I believe,  in  their  hearts ; so  at 
last  everything  was  settled  for  her  marriage  with  Mr.  Sipthorpe, 
and  he  made  a number  of  handsome  presents  to  her,  I assure 
you,  and  they  are  to  be  married  in  a few  days.  He  is  only 
waiting  for  his  rents  in  the  country  to  take  the  captain  out  of 
prison  ; but  here  is  Miss  Emily,  instead  of  being  quite  merry 
and  joyful,  is  as  dull  and  as  melancholy  as  if  she  was  going 
to  be  married  to  a frightful  old  man.”  ‘‘  Consider,”  said 
Amanda,  “ you  have  just  said  her  heart  was  p«'e-engaged.” 
“ Lord  ! ” crkd  Mrs.  Connel,  “ a girl  at  her  time  of  life 
can  change  her  love  as  easily  as  her  cap.”  I sincerely 
hope,”  exclaimed  Amanda,  “ that  she  either  has,  or  may 
soon  be  able  to  transfer  hers.”  ‘‘And  now,  pray,  madam,” 
said  Mrs.  Connel,  with  a look  which  seemed  to  say  Amanda 
should  be  as  communicative  as  she  had  been,  “ may  I ask  from 
whence  you  have  travelled  ? ” “ From  a remote  part  of  Scot- 

land.” “ Dear,  what  a long  journey  ! — Lord  ! they  say  that  is 
a very  desolate  place,  without  never  a tree  or  a bush  in  it.” 
“I  assure  you  it  wants  neither  shade  nor ' verdure,”  replied 
Amanda.  “ Really ; well.  Lord,  what  lies  some  people  tell ! 
Pray,  ma'am,  may  I ask  what  countrywoman  you  are  ? ” “Welsh,” 
said  Amanda.  “ Really ; well,  I suppose,  ma’am,  you  have  had 
many  a scramble  up  the  mountains,  after  the  goats,  which  they 
say  are  marvellous  plenty  in  that  part  of  the  world.'’  “ No,  in- 
deed,” reoUed  Amanda.  '"Are  vou  come  to  make  any  lonf 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


479 


itay  in  London,  ma^am  ? I have  not  determined/’  “ I 
suppose  you  have  come  about  a little  business,  ma’am  ? ” re* 
sumed  Mrs.  Connel.  “ Yes,”  replied  Amanda.  ‘‘  To  be  sure, 
not  an  affair  of  great  consequence,  or  so  young  a lady  would 
not  have  undertaken  it.”  Amanda  smiled,  but  made  no  reply, 
and  was  at  length  relieved  from  these  tiresome  and  inquisitive 
questions  by  Mrs.  ConneFs  calling  in  her  girls  to  tea ; after 
which  she  washed  the  tea-things,  put  them  into  the  beaufet. 
and  left  the  room  to  order  something  comfortable  for  supper. 
Left  to  herself,  Amanda  reflected  that  at  the  present  juncture 
of  Rushbrook’s  affairs,  when  his  attention  and  time  were 
engrossed  by  the  approaching  settlement  of  his  daughter,  an 
application  to  him,  on  her  own  account,  would  be  not  only  im- 
pertinent, but  unavailing ; she  therefore  determined  to  wait  till 
the  hurry  and  agitation  produced  by  such  an  event  had  subsid- 
ed, and  most  sincerely  did  she  hope  that  it  might  be  produc- 
tive of  felicity  to  all.  Mrs.  Connel  was  not  long  absent,  and 
Emily  returned  almost  at  the  moment  she  re-entered  the  room. 
“ Well,  miss,”  said  Mrs.  Connel,  addressing  her  ere  she  had 
time  to  speak  to  Amanda,  ‘‘  I have  been  telling  your  good 
friend  here  all  about  your  affairs.” 

Have  you,  ma’am  ? ” cried  Emily,  with  a faint  smile,  and 
a dejected  voice.  Amanda  looked  earnestly  in  her  face,  and 
saw  an  expression  of  the  deepest  sadness  in  it.  Erom  her 
owM  heart  she  readily  imagined  what  her  feelings  must  be  at 
such  a disappointment  as  Mrs.  Connel  had  mentioned,  and 
felt  the  sincerest  pity  for  her.  Mrs.  Connel’s  volubility  tor- 
mented them  both  ; supper  happily  terminated  it,  as  she  was 
then  much  better  employed,  in  her  own  opinion,  than  she  could 
possibly  have  been  in  talking.  Amanda  pleaded  fatigue  for 
retiring  early.  Mrs.  Connel  advised  her  lo  tiy  a few  glasses 
of  wine  as  a restorative,  but  she  begged  to  be  excused,  and  was 
allowed  to  retire  with  Emily.  The  chamber  was  small  but  neat, 
and  enlivened  by  a good  fire,  to  which  Amanda  and  Emily  sat 
down  while  undressing.  The  latter  eagerly  availed  herself  of 
this  opportunity  to  express  the  gratitude  of  her  heart.  Aman- 
da tried  to  change  the  discourse,  but  could  not  succeed.  “ Long, 
madam,”  continued  Emily,  ‘‘have  we  wished  to  return  ouir 
thanks  for  a benefaction  so  delicately  conveyed  as  yours,  and 
happy  were  my  parents  to-night  when  1 informed  them  I could 
now  express  their  grateful  feelings.”  “Though  interested  ex- 
ceedingly in  your  affairs,”  said  Amanda,  making  another  effort 
to  change  the  discourse,  “ be  assured  I never  should  have 
taken  the  liberty  of  inquiring  minutely  into  tH»m,  and  I men* 


4So  THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  ^ 

tion  this,  lest  you  might  suppose  from  what  Mrs.  Cormel  said, 
that  I had  done  so.’'  “No,  madam,”  replied  Emily,  “I  had 
no  such  idea,  and  an  inquiry  from  you  would  be  rather  pleas- 
ing than  otherwise,  because  I should  then  flatter  myself  you 
might  be  induced  to  listen  to  griefs  which  have  long  wanted 
the  consolation  of  sympathy — such,  I am  sure,  as  they  would 
receive  from  you.”  “ Happy  should  I be,”  cried  Amanda, 
“ had  I the  povvrer  of  alleviating  them.”  “ Oh ! madam,  you 
have  the  power,”  said  Emily,  “for  you  would  commiserate 
them,  and  commiseration  from  you  would  be  balm  to  my  heart  •- 
you  would  strengthen  me  in  my  duties — you  would  instruct 
me  in  resignation  ; but  I am  selfish  in  desiring  to  intrude  them 
on  you.”  “ No,”  replied  Amanda,  taking  her  hand,  “ you  flattei 
me  by  such  a desire.”  “ Then,  madam,  whilst  you  are  un- 
dressing, I will  give  myself  the  melancholy  indulgence  or 
relating  my  little  story.” 


CHAPTER  LI. 

“ Take  heed,  take  heed,  thou  lovely  maid, 

Nor  be  by  glittering  ills  betrayed.’* 

To  open  our  hearts  to  those  we  know  will  commiserate  our 
sorrows,  is  the  sweetest  consolation  those  sorrows  can  receive ; 
to  you,  then,  madam,  I divulge  mine,  sure  at  least  of  pity.  At 
the  time  I first  had  the  happiness  of  seeing  you,  the  little  credit 
my  father  had  was  exhausted,  and  his  inability  to  pay  being 
well  known,  he  was  arrested  one  evening  as  he  sat  by  the  bed- 
side of  my  almost  expiring  mother  ! I will  not  pain  your  gentle 
nature  by  dwelling  on  the  horrors  of  that  moment,  on  the  ago- 
nies of  a parent,  and  a husband  torn  from  a family  so  situated 
as  was  my  father’s.  Feeble,  emaciated,  without  even  sufficient 
clothing  to  guard  him  from  the  inclemency  of  the  weather,  he 
leaned  upon  the  arm  of  one  of  the  bailiffs,  as  he  turned  his 
eyes  from  that  wife  he  never  more  expected  to  behold.  She 
fainted  at  the  moment  he  left  the  room,  and  it  was  many  min- 
utes ere  I had  power  to  approach  her.  The  long  continuance 
of  her  fit  at  length  recalled  my  distracted  thoughts  ; but  I had 
no  restoratives  to  apply,  no  assistance  to  recover  her,  for  my 
eldest  brother  had  followed  my  father,  and  the  rest  of  the  chil- 
dren, terrified  by  the  scene  they  had  witnessed,  wept  together 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY,  481 

in  a corner  of  the  room.  I at  last  recollected  a lady  who  lived 
nearly  opposite  to  us,  and  from  whom  I hoped  to  procure  some 
/elief  for  her.  Nothing  but  the  present  emergency  could  have 
made  me  apply  to  her,  for  the  attention  she  had  paid  us  on  first 
coming  to  Mr.  Heathfield's  was  entirely  withdrawn  after  his 
death.  Pride,  however,  was  forgotten  at  the  present  moment, 
and  I flew  to  her  house.  The  servant  showed  me  into  a parlor, 
where  she,  her  daughters,  and  a young  clergyman  I had  never 
before  seen,  were  Ong  at  tea.  I could  not  bring  myself  to 
mention  my  distress  before  a stranger,  and  accordingl}’’  begged 
to  speak  to  her  in  another  room  ; but  she  told  me  in  a blunt 
manner  I might  speak  there.  In  a low  and  faltering  voice, 
which  sighs  and  tears  often  impeded,  I acquainted  her  of  what 
had  happened,  the  situation  of  my  mother,  and  requested  a cor* 
dial  for  her.  How  great  was  my  confusion  when  she  declared 
aloud  all  I had  told  her,  and  turning  to  her  daughter,  bid  her 
give  me  part  of  a bottle  of  wine.  ‘ Ay,  ay,’  cried  she,  ‘ I always 
thought  things  would  turn  out  so.  It  was  really  very  foolish  of 
Mr.  Heathfield  to  bring  you  to  his  house,  and  lead  you  all 
into  such  expenses ! ’ I listened  to  no  more,  but  taking  the 
wine  with  a silent  pang,  retired. 

I had  not  been  many  minutes  returned,  and  was  kneeling 
by  the  bedside  of  my  mother,  who  began  to  show  some  symp- 
toms of  returning  life,  when  a gentle  knock  came  to  the  hall- 
door.  I supposed  it  my  brother,  and  bade  one  of  the  children 
fly  to  open  it.  What  w^as  my  surprise  when  in  a few  minutes 
she  returned,  followed  by  the  young  clergyman  I had  just  seen. 
I started  from  my  kneeling  posture,  and  my  looks  expressed 
my  wonder.  He  approached,  and  in  the  soft  accent  of  benevo- 
lence, apologized  for  his  intrusion  ; but  said  he  came  with  a 
hope  and  a wish  that  he  might  be  serviceable.  Oh  ! how  sooth- 
ing was  his  voice  I Oh!  how  painfully  pleasing  the  voice  of 
tenderness  to  the  wretcued  I The  tears  which  pride  and 
indignation  had  suspended  but  a few  moments  before  again 
began  flowing. 

“ But  I will  not  dwell  upon  my  feelings  ; suffice  it  to  say, 
that  every  attention  which  could  mitigate  my  wretchedness,  he 
paid,  and  that  his  efforts,  aided  by  mine,  soon  restored  my 
mother.  His  looks,  his  manner,  his  profession,  all  conspired 
to  calm  her  spirits,  and  she  blessed  the  power  which  so  unex- 
pectedly had  given  us  a friend.  My  brother  returned  from  my 
father  merely  to  inquire  how  we  were,  and  to  go  back  to  him 
directly.  The  stranger  requested  permission  to  accompany 
him ; a request  most  pleasing  to  us.  as  we  trusted  his  soothing 


483  TBE  child Of  AJfEBK 

attention  would  have  the  same  effect  up'/n  his  sorrowing  heart 
as  it  had  upon  ours.  Scarcely  were  they  gone  ere  a man  ar- 
rived from  a neighboring  hotel  with  a basket  loaded  with  wine 
and  provisions.  But  to  enumerate  every  instance  of  this  young 
man’s  goodness  would  be  encroaching  upon  your  patience.  In 
short,  by  his  care,  my  mother  in  a few  days  was  able  to  be  car- 
ried to  my  father’s  prison.  Mrs.  Connel,  who,  on  the  first  in- 
timation of  our  distress,  had  come  to  us,  took  me  into  the 
house  at  a stated  salary,  which  was  to  be  given  to  my  parents, 
and  the  rest  of  the  children  were  to  continue  with  them.  My 
mother  desired  me  one  evening  to  take  a walk  vdth  the  chil- 
dren to  Kensington,  as  she  thought  them  injured  by  constant 
confinement.  Our  friend  attended  us,  and  in  our  way  thither, 
informed  me  that  he  must  soon  leave  town,  as  he  was  but  a 
country  curate,  and  his  leave  of  absence  from  his  rector  was 
expired.  It  was  above  a month  since  we  had  known  him,  dur- 
ing which  time  his  attentions  were  unremitting,  and  he  was  a 
source  of  comfort  to  us  all.  A sudden  chill  came  over  my 
heart  as  he  spoke,  and  every  sorrow  at  that  moment  seemed 
aggravated.  On  entering  Kensington  gardens,  I seated  myself 
on  a little  rising  mount,  for  I felt  trembling  and  fatigued,  and 
he  sat  beside  me.  Never  had  I before  felt  so  oppressed,  and 
my  tears  gushed  forth  in  spite  of  my  efforts  to  restrain  them. 
Something  I said  of  their  being  occasioned  by  the  recollection 
of  the  period  when  my  parents  enjoyed  the  charming  scene  I 
now  contemplated  along  with  him.  ‘Would  to  Heaven,^  cried 
he,  ‘ I could  restore  them  again  to  the  enjoyment  of  it.^ 

“ ‘ Ah,’  said  I,  ‘ they  already  lie  under  unreturnable  obliga- 
tions to  you.  In  losing  you,’  added  I,  involuntarily,  ‘ they 
would  lose  their  only  comfort.’  ‘ Since  then,’  cried  he, ‘you 
flatter  me  by  saying  it  is  in  my  power  to  give  them  comfort, 
oh  ! let  them  have  a constant  claim  upon  me  for  it ! Oh ! 
Emily!”  he  continued,  taking  my  hand,  ‘let  them  be  my 
parents  as  well  as  yours  ; then  will  their  too  scrupulous  delicacy 
be  conquered,  and  they  will  rece've  as  a right  what  they  now 
consider  as  a favor.’  I felt  my  cheeks  glow  with  blushes,  but 
still  did  not  perfectly  conceive  his  meaning.  ‘ My  destiny  is 
humble,’  he  continued  ; ‘ was  it  otherwise,  I should  long  since 
have  entreated  you  to  share  it  with  me.  Could  you  be  pre- 
vailed on  to  do  so,  you  would  give  it  pleasures  it  never  yet 
experienced.’  He  paused  for  a reply,  but  I was  unable  to 
give  one. 

“ Ah ! madam,  how  little  necessity  either  was  there  for  one ; 
my  looks,  my  confusion,  betrayed  my  feelings.  He  urged  me 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


lo  speak,  and  at  last  I acknowledged  I should  not  hesitate  to 
share  his  destiny,  but  for  my  parents,  who,  by  such  a measure, 
would  lose  my  assistance.  ‘ Oh ! do  not  think,*  cried  he,  ‘ I 
would  ever  w sh  to  tempt  you  into  any  situation  which  should 
make  you  neglect  them.*  He  then  proceeded  to  say  that, 
though  unable  a^-  present  to  liberate  them,  yet  he  trusted  that 
if  they  consented  to  our  union,  he  should  by  economy  be  en- 
abled to  contribute  more  essentially  to  their  support  than  I 
could  do,  and  also  be  able  in  a short  time  to  discharge  their 
debts.  His  proposals  were  made  known  to  them,  and  met 
their  warmest  approbation.  The  pleasure  they  derived  from 
them  was  more  on  my  account  than  their  own,  as  the  idea  of 
having  me  so  settled  removed  a weight  of  anxiety  from  their 
minds  ; some  of  my  brothers  and  sisters  should  live  with  us, 
he  said,  and  promised  my  time  should  be  chiefly  spent  in  doing 
fine  works,  which  should  be  sent  to  Mrs.  Connel  to  dispose  of 
for  my  parents ; and  also  that,  from  time  to  time,  I should 
visit  them  till  I had  the  power  of  bringing  them  to  my  cottage, 
for  such  he  described  his  residence. 

“ He  was  compelled  to  go  to  the  country,  but  it  was  settled 
he  should  return  in  a short  time,  and  have  everything  finally 
settled.  In  about  a week  after  his  departure,  as  I was  return- 
ing one  morning  from  a lady’s,  where  I had  been  on  a message 
from  Mrs.  Connel,  a gentleman  joined  me  in  the  street,  and 
with  a rude  familiarity  endeavored  to  enter  into  conversation 
with  me.  I endeavored  to  shake  him  off,  but  could  not  suc- 
ceed, and  hastened  home  with  the  utmost  expedition,  whither 
I saw  he  followed  me.  I thought  no  more  of  the  incident  till 
about  two  days  after  I saw  him  enter  the  shop,  and  heard  him 
inquire  of  Mrs.  Connel  about  her  lodgings,  which  to  my  great 
mortification  he  immediately  took,  for  I could  not  help  sus- 
pecting he  had  some  improper  motive  for  taking  them.  I 
resolved,  however,  if  such  a motive  really  existed,  to  disappoint 
it  by  keeping  out  of  his  way ; but  all  my  vigilance  was  unavail- 
ing; he  was  continually  on  the  watch  for  me,  and  I could  not 
go  up  or  down  stairs  without  being  insulted  by  him.  I at 
length  informed  Mrs.  Connel  of  his  conduct,  and  entreated 
her  to  fulfil  the  sacred  trust  her  friends  reposed  in  her,  when 
they  gave  me  to  her  care,  by  terminating  the  insults  of  Mr. 
Sipthorpe.  Alas ! could  I have  possibly  foreseen  the  conse- 
quences that  would  have  followed  my  application  to  her,  I 
should  have  borne  these  insults  in  silence.  She  has  already 
informed  you  of  them.  Oh!  madam!  when  the  letter  came 
which  dissolved  a promise  so  cheerfully,  so  fondly  given,  every 


484  the  children  of  the  abbek^ 

prospect  of  felicity  was  in  a moment  overshadowed  ! For  u 
long  time  I resisted  every  effort  that  was  made  to  prevail  on 
me  to  marry  Sipthorpe ; but  when  at  last  my  mother  said  she 
was  sorry  to  find  my  feelings  less  than  his,  who  had  so  gener- 
ously resigned  me,  that  my  father  might  be  extricated  from  his 
difficulties,  I shrunk  with  agony  at  the  rebuke.  I wondered,  I 
was  shocked,  how  I could  have  so  long  hesitated  to  open  the 
prison  gates  of  my  father,  and  determined  from  that  moment 
to  sacrifice  myself  for  him  ; for  oh  ! Miss  Donald,  it  is  a sacri- 
fice of  the  most  dreadful  nature  I am  about  making.  Sipthorpe 
is  a man  I never  could  have  liked,  had  my  heart  even  been  dis- 
engaged.” 

Amanda  felt  the  truest  pity  for  her  young  friend,  who  ended 
her  narrative  in  tears ; but  she  did  not,  by  yielding  entirely  to 
that  pity  (as  too  many  girls  with  tender  hearts,  but  weak  heads, 
might  have  done),  heighten  the  sorrow  of  Miss  Rushbrook. 
She  proved  her  friendship  and  sympathy  more  sincerely  than 
she  could  have  done  by  mere  expressions  of  condolement, 
which  feed  the  grief  they  commiserate,  in  trying  to  reconcile 
her  to  a destiny  that  seemed  irrevocable.  She  pointed  out 
the  claims  a parent  had  upon  a child,  and  dwelt- upon  the 
delight  a child  experienced  when  conscious  of  fulfilling  those 
claims.  She  spoke  of  the  rapture  attending  the  triumph  of 
reason  and  humanity  over  self  and  passion,  and  mentioned  the 
silent  plaudits  of  the  heart  as  superior  to  ail  gratification  or 
external  advantages.  She  spoke  from  the  real  feelings  of  her 
soul.  She  recollected  the  period  at  which,  to  a father’s  admo- 
nition, she  had  resigned  a lover,  and  had  that  father  been  in 
Captain  Rushbrook’s  situation,  and  the  same  sacrifice  been 
demanded  from  her  as  from  Emily,  she  felt,  without  hesitation, 
she  would  have  made  it.  She  was  indeed  a monitress  that  had 
practised,  and  would  practise  (was  there  a necessity  for  so 
doing)  the  lessons  she  gave,  not  as  poor  Ophelia  says — 

“ Like  some  ungracious  pastors, 

Who  show  the  steep  and  thorny  path  to  heaven, 

But  take  the  primrose  one  themselves.^^ 

The  sweet  consciousness  of  this  gave  energy,  gave  more 
than  usual  eloquence  to  her  language ; but  whilst  she  wished 
to  inspirit  her  young  friend,  she  felt  from  the  tenderness  of 
her  nature,  and  the  sad  situation  of  her  own  heart,  what  that 
friend  must  feel  from  disappointed  affection  and  a reluctant 
union.  Scarcely  could  she  refrain  from  weeping  over  a fate  so 
wretched,  and  which  she  was  tempted  to  think  as  dreadful  as 


THE  CHILDREN  fiF  THE  ABBET  4Se 

her  own  ; but  a little  reflection  soon  convinced  her  she  had 
the  sad  pre-eminence  of  misery ; for  in  her  fate  there  were 
none  of  those  alleviations  as  in  Emily’s,  which  she  was  convinced 
must,  in  some  degree,  reconcile  her  to  it.  Her  sufferings, 
unlike  Emily’s,  would  not  be  rewarded  by  knowing  that  they 
contributed  to  the  comfort  of  those  dearest  to  her  heart. 

Your  words,  my  dear  madam,”  said  Emily,  “have  calmed 
my  spirits ; henceforth  I will  be  more  resolute  in  trying  to 
banish  regrets  from  my  mind.  But  I have  been  inconsiderate 
to  a degree  in  keeping  you  so  long  from  rest,  after  your 
fatiguing  journey.”  Amanda  indeed  appeared  at  this  moment 
nearly  exhausted,  and  gladly  hastened  to  bed.  Her  slumbers 
were  short  and  unrefreshing ; the  cares  which  clung  to  her 
heart  when  waking  were  equally  oppressive  while  sleeping. 
Lord  Mortimer  mingled  in  the  meditations  of  the  morning,  in 
the  visions  of  the  night,  and  when  she  awoke  she  found  her 
pillow  wet  with  the  tears  she  had  shed  on  his  account.  Emily 
was  already  up,  but  on  Amanda’s  drawing  back  the  curtain 
she  laid  down  the  book  she  was  reading,  and  came  to  her. 
She  saw  she  looked  extremely  ill,  and,  imputing  this  to  fatigue, 
requested  she  would  breakfast  in  bed ; but  Amanda,  who  knew 
her  illness  proceeded  from  a cause  which  neither  rest  nor  as- 
siduous care  could  cure,  refused  complying  with  this  request, 
and  immediately  dressed  herself. 

As  she  stood  at  the  toilet,  Emily  suddenly  exclaimed,  “ If 
you  have  a mind  to  see  Sipthorpe,  I will  show  him  to  you  now, 
for  he  is  just  going  out.”  Amanda  went  to  the  window,  which 
Emily  gently  opened  ; but,  oh  I what  was  the  shock  of  that 
moment,  when  in  Sipthorpe  she  recognized  the  insidious  Bel- 
grave  ! A shivering  horror  ran  through  her  veins,  and  recoil- 
ing a few  paces  she  sunk  half  fainting  on  a chair.  Emily, 
terrified  by  her  appearance,  was  flying  to  the  bell  to  ring  for 
assistance,  when,  by  a faint  motion  of  her  hand,  Amanda  pre- 
vented her.  “ I shall  soon  be  better,”  said  she,  speaking  with 
difficulty;  “but  I will  lie  down  on  the  bed  for  a few  minutes, 
and  I beg  you  may  go  to  your  breakfast.”  Emily  refused  to 
go,  and  entreated,  that  instead  of  leaving  her,  she  might  have 
breakfast  brought  up  for  them  both.  Amanda  assured  her  she 
could  take  nothing  at  present,  and  wished  for  quiet.  Emily 
therefore  reluctantly  left  her.  Amanda  now  endeavored  to 
compose  her  distracted  thoughts,  and  quiet  the  throbbings  of 
her  agonizing  heart,  that  she  might  be  able  to  arrange  some 
plan  for  extricating  herself  from  her  i ;esent  situation,  which 
appeared  replete  with  ever}  clanger  to  her  imagination ; for. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


486 

from  the  libertine  principles  of  Belgrave,  she  could  not  hope 
that  a new  object  of  pursuit  would  detach  him  from  her,  when 
he  found  her  so  unexpectedly  thrown  in  his  way.  Unprotected 
as  she  was,  she  could  not  think  of  openly  avowing  her  knowl- 
edge of  Belgrave.  To  discover  his  baseness,  required  there- 
fore caution  and  deliberation,  lest  in  saving  Emily  from  the 
snare  spread  for  her  destruction,  she  should  entangle  herself 
in  it.  To  declare  at  once  his  real  character,  must  betray  hei 
to  him  ; and  though  she  might  banish  him  from  the  house,  yet, 
unsupported  as  she  was  by  her  friends  or  kindred — unable  to 
procure  the  protection  of  Rushbrook,  in  his  present  situation, 
however  willing  he  might  be  to  extend  it — she  trembled  to 
think  of  the  dangers  to  which,  by  thus  discovering,  she  might 
expose  herself — dangers  which  the  deep  treachery  and  daring 
effrontery  of  Belgrave  would,  in  all  probability,  prevent  her 
escaping.  As  the  safest  measure,  she  resolved  on  quitting  the 
house  in  the  course  of  the  day ; but  without  giving  any  intima- 
tion that  she  meant  not  to  return  to  it.  She  recollected  a 
place  where  there  was  a probability  of  her  getting  lodgings 
which  would  be  at  once’  secret  and  secure ; and  by  an  anony 
mous  letter  to  Captain  Rushbrook,  she  intended  to  acquain 
him  of  his  daughter’s  danger,  and  refer  him  to  Sir  Charles 
Bingley,  at  whose  agent’s  he  could  receive  intelligence  of  him 
for  the  truth  of  what  she  said.  Her  plan  concerted,  she  grew 
more  composed,  and  was  able,  when  Emily  entered  the  room 
with  her  breakfast,  to  ask,  in  a seemingly  careless  manner, 
when  Mr.  Sipthorpe  was  expected  back. 

“ It  is  very  uncertain,  indeed,”  answered  she. 

“ I must  go  out  in  the  course  of  the  day,”  said  Amanda, 
about  particular  business ; I may  therefore  as  well  prepare 
myself  at  once  for  it.”  She  accordingly  put  on  her  habit,  and 
requested  materials  for  writing  from  Emily,  which  were  imme- 
diately brought,  and  Emily  then  retired  till  she  had  written  her 
letter.  Amanda,  left  to  herself,  hastily  unlocked  her  little 
trunk,  and  taking  from  it  two  changes  of  linen,  and  the  will  and 
narrative  of.  Lady  Dunreath,  she  deposited  the  two  former  in 
her  pocket,  and  the  two  latter  in  her  bosom,  then  sat  down  and 
wrote  the  following  letter  to  Captain  Rushbrook  : — 

A person  who  esteems  the  character  of  Captain  Rushbrook,  and  the 
amiable  simplicity  of  his  daughter,  cautions  him  to  gua"«^.  that  simplicity 
against  the  danger  which  now  threatens  it,  from  a wretch  who,  under  the 
sacred  semblance  of  virtue,  designs  to  fix  a sharper  sting  in  the  bosom  of 
affliction  than  adversity  ever  yet  implanted.  The  worth  of  Sipthorpe  is  not 
more  fictitious  than  his  name.  His  real  one  is  Belgrave.  His  hand  is  al- 
ready another’s,  and  his  character  for  many  years  past  marked  with  in- 


THE  CHILDREH  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


487 

stances  of  deceit,  if  not  equal,  at  least  little  inferior  to  the  present.  For 
the  truth  of  these  assertions,  the  writer  of  the  letter  refers  Captain  Rush- 

brook  to  Sir  Charles  Bingley,  of regiment,  from  whose  agent  a 

direction  may  be  procured  to  him,  certain,  from  his  honor  and  sensibility, 
he  will  eagerly  step  forward  to  save  worth  and  innocence  from  woe  and 
destruction. 

Amanda’s  anxiety  about  Emily  being  equal  to  what  she  felt 
for  herself,  she  resolved  to  leave  this  letter  at  Rushbrook’s 
prison,  lest  any  accident  should  happen  if  it  went  by  any  other 
hands.  She  was  anxious  to  be  gone,  but  thought  it  better  to 
wait  till  towards  evening,  when  there  would  be  the  least  chance 
of  meeting  Belgrave,  who  at  that  time  would  probably  be  fixed  in 
some  place  for  the  remainder  of  the  day.  Emily  returned  in 
about  an  hour,  and  finding  Amanda  disengaged,  requested  per- 
mission to  sit  with  her.  Amanda,  in  her  present  agitation, 
would  have  preferred  solitude,  but  could  not  decline  the  com- 
pany of  the  affectionate  girl,  who,  in  conversing  with  her, 
sought  to  forget  the  heavy  cares  which  the  dreadful  idea  of  a 
union  with  Sipthorpe  had  drawn  upon  her.  Amanda  listened 
with  a beating  heart  to  every  sound,  but  no  intimation  of 
Belgrave’s  return  reached  her  ear.  At  length  they  were 
summoned  to  dinner ; but  Amanda  could  not  think  of  going  to 
it,  lest  she  should  be  seen  by  him.  To  avoid  this  risk,  and 
also  the  particularity  of  a refusal,  she  determined  immediately 
to  go  out,  and,  having  told  Emily  her  intention,  they  both  de- 
scended the  stairs  together.  Emily  pressed  her  exceedingly  to 
stay  for  dinner,  but  she  positively  refused,  and  left  the  house 
with  a beating  heart,  without  having  answered  Emily’s  ques- 
tion, wh®  desired  to  know  if  she  would  not  soon  return.  Thus 
perpetually  threatened  with  danger,  like  a frighted  bird  again 
was  she  to  seek  a shelter  for  her  innocent  head.  She  walked 
with  quickness  to  Oxford  Street,  where  she  directly  procured  a 
carriage,  but  was  so  weak  and  agitated  the  coachman  was  al- 
most obliged  to  lift  her  into  it.  She  directed  it  to  the  prison, 
and  on  reaching  it  sent  for  one  of  the  turnkeys,  to  whom  she, 
gave  her  letter  for  Rushbrook,  with  a particular  charge  to  de- 
liver it  immediately  to  him.  She  then  ordered  the  carriage  to 
Pall  Mall,  where  it  may  be  remembered  she  had  once  lodged 
with  Lady  Greystock.  This  was  the  only  lodging-house  in 
London  she  knew,  and  in  it  she  expected  no  satisfaction  but 
what  would  be  derived  from  thinking  herself  safe,  as  its  mis- 
tress was  a woman  of  a most  unpleasant  temper.  She  had 
once  been  in  affluent  circumstances,  and  the  remembrance  of 
those  circumstances  soured  her  temper,  and  rendered  her,  if  rvH 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


4.S8 

incapable  of  enjoying,  at  least  unwilling  to  acknowledge,  the 
blessings  she  yet  possessed.  On  any  one  in  her  power  she 
vented  her  spleen.  Her  chief  pursuit  was  the  gratification  of 
a most  insatiate  curiosity,  and  her  first  delight  relating  the 
affairs,  good  or  bad,  which  that  curiosity  dived  into.  Amanda, 
finding  she  was  within,  dismissed  the  coach,  and  was  shown  by 
the  maid  into  the  back  parlor,  where  she  sat.  “ Oh  dear ! 
cried  she,  with  a supercilious  smile,  the  moment  Amanda  en- 
tered, without  rising  from  her  chair  to  return  her  salute,  When 
did  you  return  to  London  ? — and  pray,  may  I ask  what  brought 
you  back  to  it  ? ’’ 

Amanda  was  convinced  from  Mrs.  Hansard^s  altered  mam 
ner,  who  had  once  been  servile  to  a degree  to  her,  that  she 
was  perfectly  acquainted  with  her  destitute  condition,  and  a 
heavy  sigh  burst  from  her  heart  at  the  idea  of  associating  with 
a woman  who  had  the  meanness  to  treat  her  ill  because  of  that 
condition.  A chillness  crept  through  her  frame  when  she  re- 
flected her  sad  situation  might  long  compel  her  to  this.  Sick, 
weak,  exhausted,  she  sunk  upon  a chair,  which  she  had  neither 
been  offered  nor  desired  to  take.  Well,  misSj  and  pray  what 
is  your  business  in  town  ? again  asked  Mrs.  Hansard,  with  an 
increased  degree  of  pertness. 

‘‘  My  business,  madam,’’  replied  Amanda,  can  be  of  n<? 
consequence  to  a person  not  connected  with  me.  My  business 
with  you  is  to  know  whether  you  can  accommodate  me  with  lodg- 
ings ? ” Really.  Well,  you  might  have  paid  me  the  compli- 
ment of  saying  you  would  have  called  at  any  rate  to  know  how 
I did.  You  may  guess  how  greatly  flattered  an  humble  being 
like  me  would  be  by  the  notice  of  so  amiable  a young  lady.” 

These  words  were  pronounced  with  a kind  of  sneer  that,  by 
rousing  the  pride  of  Amanda,  a little  revived  her  spirits.  I 
should  be  glad,  madam,”  said  she,  with  a composed  voice,  while 
a faint  glow  stole  over  her  cheek,  “ to  know  whether  you  can, 
or  choose,  to  accommodate  me  with  lodgings  ? ” ‘‘  Lord,  my 

dear,”  replied  Mrs.  Hansard,  “ do  not  be  in  such  a wondrous 
hurry — take  a cup  of  tea  with  me,  and  then  we  will  settle  about 
that  business.”  These  words  implied  that  she  would  comply 
with  the  wish  of  Amanda ; and,  however  disagreeable  the 
asylum,  yet  to  have  secured  one  cheered  her  sinking  heart.  Tea 
was  soon  made,  which  to  Amanda,  who  had  touched  nothing 
ijiince  breakfast — and  but  little  then — would  have  been  a pleas- 
Anr  refreshment,  had  she  not  been  tormented  and  fatigued  by 
the  questions  of  Mrs.  Hansard,  who  laid  a thousand  baits  to 
betray  her  into  a full  confession  of  what  had  brought  her  to 


THE  CHILDREN  DF  THE  ABBEY. 


4^9 

London*  Amanda,  though  a stranger  in  herself  to  every  species 
of  art,  from  fatal  exp  rience  was  aware  of  it  in  others,  and 
therefore  guarded  her  secret.  Mrs.  Hansard,  who  loved  what 
she  called  a gossipping  cup  of  tea,  sat  a tedious  time  over  the 
tea-table.  Amanda,  at  last  mortified  and  alarmed  by  some  ex- 
pressions which  dropped  from  her,  again  ventured  to  ask  if  she 
could  be  lodged  under  her  roof. 

“ Are  you  really  serious  in  that  question  ? ” said  Mrs.  Han- 
sard. There  was  a certain  expression  of  contempt  in  her  fea- 
tures as  she  spoke,  which  shocked  Amanda  so  much  that  she 
had  not  power  to  reply  ; ‘‘because  if  you  are,  my  dear,’’  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Hansard,  “you  have  more  assurance  than  I thought 
j^ou  were  possessed  of,  though  I always  gave  you  credit  for  a 
pretty  large  share.  Do  you  think  I would  ruin  my  house, 
which  lodges  people  of  the  first  rank  and  character,  by  admit- 
ting you  into  it  ? you,  who,  it  is  well  known,  obtained  Lady  Grey- 
stock’s  protection  from  charity,  and  lost  it  through  misconduct. 
Poor  lady — I had  the  whole  story  from  her  own  mouth.  Sh' 
suffered  well  from  having  anything  to  say  to  you.  I always 
guessed  how  it  would  be.  Notwithstanding  your  demure  look, 
I saw  well  enough  how  you  would  turn  out.  I assure  you,  to 
use  your  own  words,  if  I could  accommodate  3ml  in  my  house, 
it  would  not  answer  you  at  all,  for  there  are  no  convenient 
closets  in  it  in  which  a lady  of  your  disposition  might  now  and 
then  want  to  hide  a smart  }70ung  fellow.  I advise  }^ou,  if  }^ou 
have  had  a tiff  with  any  of  your  frieuds,  to  make  up  the  differ- 
ence ; though,  indeed,  if  you  do  not,  :n  sucu  a place  as  Lon- 
don, you  can  never  be  at  a loss  for  such  friends.  Perhaps  you 
are  now  beginning  to  repent  of  your  evil  courses,  and,  if  I took 
you  into  my  house,  I should  suffer  as  much  in  my  pocket,  I 
suppose,  as  in  my  character.” 

The  terrified  and  distressed  look  with  which  Amanda  lis- 
tened to  this  speech,  would  have  stopped  Mrs.  Hansard  in  the 
middle  of  it,  had  she  possessed  a spark  of  humanity,  even  if 
she  believed  her  (which  was  not  the  case)  guilt}".  But  lost  to 
the  noble,  the  gentle  feelings  of  humanity,  she  exulted  in  the 
triumph  of  malice,  and  rejoiced  to  have  an  opportunity  of 
piercing  the  panting  heart  of  helpless  innocence  with  the  sharp 
darts  of  insult  and  unmerited  reproach.  Amidst  the  various 
shocks  Amanda  had  experienced  in  the  short  but  eventful 
course  of  her  life,  one  greater  than  the  present  she  had  never 
felt.  Petrified  by  Mrs.  Hansard’s  words,  it  was  some  time  ere 
she  had  power  to  speak.  “ Gracious  Heaven  ! ” exclaimed 
she,  at  last,  looking  up  to  that  Heaven  she  addressed,  and 


490 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


which  she  now  considered  her  only  refuge  from  evil,  to  what 
trials  am  I continually  exposed  ! Persecuted,  insulted,  shocked  1 
Oh  ! what  happiness  to  lay  my  feeble  frame,  my  woe-struck 
heart,  within  that  low  asylum  where  malice  could  no  more 
^nnoy,  deceit  no  more  betray  me ! I am  happy,’’  she  con- 
dnued,  starting  up,  and  looking  at  Mrs.  Hansard,  ‘‘that  the 
accommodation  I desired  in  this  house  you  refused  me,  for  I 
am  now  well  convinced,  from  the  knowledge  of  your  disposi- 
5;ion,  that  the  security  my  situation  requires  I should  not  have 
lound  within  it.”  She  hastily  quitted  the  room  ; but  on  enter- 
ing the  hall  her  spirits  entirely  forsook  her,  at  the  dreadful  idea 
of  having  no  home  to  go  to.  Overcome  with  horror,  she  sunk 
in  a flood  of  tears  upon  one  of  the  hall  chairs.  A maid,  who 
had  probably  been  listening  to  her  mistress’s  conversation,  now 
came  from  a front  parlor,  and  as  Mrs.  Hansard  had  shut  the 
door  after  Amanda,  addressed  her  without  fear  of  being  over- 
heard. “ Bless  me,  miss,”  said  she,  “ are  you  crying  ? Why, 
Lord  ! surely  you  would  not  mind  what  old  Blouzy  in  the  par- 
lor says  ? I promise  you,  if  we  minded  her,  we  should  have 
red  eyes  here  every  day  in  the  week.  Do,  pray,  miss,  tell  me 
if  I can  be  of  any  service  to  you  ? ” 

Amanda,  in  a voice  scarcely  articulate,  thanked  her,  and 
said  in  a few  minutes  she  should  be  better  able  to  speak.  To 
seek  lodgings  at  this  late  hour  was  not  to  be  thought  of,  ex- 
cept she  wished  to  run  into  the  very  dangers  she  had  wanted 
to  avoid,  and  Mrs.  Connel’s  house  returned  to  her  recollection, 
as  the  impossibility  of  procuring  a refuge  in  any  other  was  con- 
firmed in  her  mind.  She  began  to  think  it  could  not  be  so 
dangerous  as  her  fears  in  the  morning  had  represented  it  to  be. 
Ere  this  she  thought  Belgrave  (for  since  the  delivery  of  the 
letter  there  had  been  time  enough  for  such  a proceeding)  migh 
be  banished  from  it;  if  not,  she  had  a chance  of  concealing 
herself,  and,  even  if  discovered,  she  believed  Mrs.  Connel 
would  protect  her  from  his  open  insults,  whilst  she  trusted  her 
own  precautions  would,  under  Pleaven,  defeat  his  secret 
schemes,  should  he  again  contrive  any.  She  therefore  re- 
solved, or  rather  necessity  compelled  her — for  could  she  have 
avoided  it  she  would  not  have  done  so — to  return  to  Mrs.  Con- 
nel’s  ; she  accordingly  requested  the  maid  to  procure  her  a car- 
riage, and  rewarded  her  for  her  trouble.  As  she  was  returning 
to  Mrs.  Connel’s,  she  endeavored  to  calm  her  spirits,  and  quell 
her  apprehensions.  When  the  carriage  stopped,  and  the  maid 
appeared,  she  could  scarcely  prevent  herself  ere  she  alighted 
from  inquiring  whether  any  one  but  the  family  was  within; 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


498 

conscious,  however,  that  such  a question  might  create  suspi- 
cions, and  that  suspicions  would  naturally  excite  inquines,  she 
checked  herself,  and  re-entered,  though  with  trembling  limbs, 
that  house  from  whence  in  the  morning  she  had  fled  with  such 
terror. 


CHAPTER  LTI. 

“ Why,  thou  poor  mourner,  in  what  baleful  corner 
Hast  thou  been  talking  with  that  witch,  the  night  ? 

On  what  cold  stone  hast  thou  been  stretched  along. 

Gathering  the  grumbling  winds  about  thy  head, 

To  mix  with  theirs  the  accents  of  thy  woes?” — Otway. 

Amanda  had  not  reached  the  parlor  when  the  door  opened, 
and  Mrs.  Connel  came  from  it.  Oh  ! oh  ! miss,”  cried  she, 
“ so  you  are  returned.  I protest  I was  beginning  to  think  you 
had  stolen  a march  upon  us.  There  was  a rude  bluntness  in 
this  speech  which  confounded  Amanda  ; and  her  mind  misgave 
her  that  ail  was  not  right.  “Come,”  continued  Mrs.  Connel, 
“come  in,  miss,  I assure  you  I have  been  very  impatient  for 
your  return.”  Amanda’s  fears  increased.  She  followed  Mrs. 
Connel  in  silence  into  the  parlor,  where  she  beheld  an  elderly 
woman,  of  a pleasing  but  emaciated  appearance,  who  seemed 
in  great  agitation  and  distress.  How  she  could  possibly  have 
anything  to  say  to  this  woman,  she  could  not  conjectuie,  and 
yet  an  idea  that  she  had,  instantly  darted  into  her  mind  ; she 
sat  down,  trembling  in  every  limb,  and  waited  with  impatience 
for  an  explanation  of  this  scene.  After  a general  silence  of  a 
few  minutes,  the  stranger,  looking  at  Amanda,  said,  “ My 
daughter,  madam,  has  informed  me  we  are  indebted  to  your 
bounty  ; I am  therefore  happy  at  an  opportunity  of  discharging 
the  debt.”  These  words  announced  Mrs.  Rushbrookj,  but 
Amanda  was  confounded  at  her  manner  ; its  coolness  and 
formality  were  more  expressive  of  dislike  and  severity  than  of 
gentleness  or  gratitude.  Mrs.  Rushbrook  rose  as  she  spoke, 
and  offered  a note  to  her.  Speechless  from  astonishment, 
Amanda  had  not  power  either  to  decline  or  accept  it,  and  it 
was  laid  on  a table  before  her. 

“Allow  me,  madam,”  said  Mrs.  Rushbrook,  as  she  resumed 
her  seat,  “ to  ask  if  your  real  name  is  Donald  } ” Amanda’s 
presentiment  of  underhand  doings  was  now  verified  ; it  was 
evident  to  her  that  their  author  was  Belgrave.  and  that  he  had 
been  too  successful  in  contriving  them. 


492 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Amanda  now  appeared  to  have  reached  the  crisis  of  her 
fate.  In  all  the  various  trials  she  had  hitherto  experienced, 
she  had  still  some  stay,  some  hope,  to  support  her  weakness, 
and  soothe  her  sorrows.  When  groaning  under  the  injuries 
her  character  sustained  by  the  success  of  an  execrable  plot, 
she  had  the  consolation  to  think  an  idolizing  father  would 
shelter  her  from  further  insult.  When  deprived  of  that  father, 
tender  friends  stepped  forward,  who  mingled  tears  of  sympathy 
with  hers,  and  poured  the  balm  of  pity  on  her  sorrowing  heart. 
When  torn  from  the  beloved  object  enshrined  within  that  heart, 
while  her  sick  soul  languished  under  the  heavy  burden  of  ex- 
istence, again  did  the  voice  of  friendship  penetrate  its  gloom, 
and,  though  it  could  not  remove,  alleviated  its  sufferings.  Now 
helpless,  unprotected,  she  saw  a dreadful  storm  ready  to  burst 
over  her  devoted  head,  without  one  hope  to  cheer,  one  stretched- 
out  arm  to  shield  her  from  its  violence.  Surrounded  by  strangers 
prejudiced  against  her,  she  could  not  think  that  her  plain,  un- 
varnished tale  would  gain  their  credence,  or  prevail  on  them  to 
protect  her  from  the  wretch  whose  machinations  had  ruined 
her  in  their  estimation.  The  horrors  of  her  situation  all  at 
once  assailed  her  mind,  overpowered  its  faculties ; a kind  of 
mental  sickness  seized  her,  she  leaned  her  throbbing  head 
upon  her  hand,  and  a deep  groan  burst  from  her  agonizing 
heart, 

^‘You  see,’’  said  Mrs.  Connel,  after  a long  silence,  ‘‘she 
cannot  brave  this  discovery.” 

Amanda  raised  her  head  at  these  words  ; she  had  grown  a 
little  more  composed.  “ The  Being  in  whom  I trust,”  she  said 
to  herself,  “ and  whom  I never  wilfully  offended,  will  still,  I 
doubt  not,  as  heretofore,  protect  me  from  danger.”  Mrs. 
Rushbrook’s  unanswered  question  still  sounded  in  her  ear. 
“ Allow  me,  madam,”  she  cried,  turning  to  her,  “to  ask  your 
reason  for  inquiring  whether  my  real  name  is  Donald  ? ” “ Oh, 
Lord  ! my  dear ! ” said  Mrs.  Connel,  addressing  Mrs.  Rusn- 
otook,  “ you  need  not  pester  yourself  or  her  with  any  more 
questions  about  the  matter:  her  question  is  an  answer  in  it- 
self.” “ I am  of  your  opinion,  indeed,”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Rush- 
brook,  “ and  think  any  farther  inquiry  needless.”  “ I acknowl- 
edge, madam,”  said  Amanda,  whose  voice  grew  firmer  from  the 
consciousness  of  never  having  acted  improperly,  “ that  my  name 
is  not  Donald.  I must  also  do  myself  the  justice  to  declare 
(let  me  be  credited  or  not)  that  my  real  one  _was  not  concealed 
from  any  motive  which  could  deserve  reproach  or  censure. 
My  situation  is  peculiarly  distressing.  My  only  consolation 


THE  CmLDREAT  cF  THE  ABBEY. 


493 


amidst  my  difficulties  is  the  idea  of  never  having  drawn  them 
upon  myself  by  imprudence.*’  “ I do  not  want,  madam,”  replied 
Mrs.  Rushbrook,  to  inquire  into  your  situation ; you  have 
been  candid  in  one  instance,  I hope  you  will  be  equally 
so  in  another.  Pray,  madam,”  handing  to  Amanda  the  letter 
she  had  written  to  Rushbrook,  “ Is  this  your  writing?  ” “ Yes, 
madam,”  answered  Amanda,  whose  pride  was  roused  by  the 
contempt  she  met,  ‘‘  it  is  my  writing.”  And  pray,”  said  Mrs. 
Rushbrook,  looking  steadfastly  at  her,  while  her  voice  grew 
more  severe,  ‘‘what  was  your  motive  for  writing  this  letter?” 
“I  think,  madam,”  cried  Amanda,  “the  letter  explains  that.” 
“ A pretty  explanation,  truly  I ” exclaimed  Mrs.  Connel ; “ and 
so  you  will  try  to  vilify  the  poor  gentleman’s  character;  but, 
miss,  we  have  had  an  explanation  you  little  dream  of ; ay,  we 
found  you  out,  notwithstanding  your  slyness  in  writing,  like 
one  of  the  madams  in  a novel,  a bit  of  a letter  without  ever  a 
name  to  it.  Mr.  Sipthorpe  knew  directly  who  it  came  from. 
Ah  ! poor  gentleman,  he  allowed  you  wit  enough  ; a pity  there 
is  not  more  goodness  with  it ; he  knows  you  very  well  to  his 
cost.”  “Yes,”  said  Amanda,  “ he  knows  I am  a being  whose 
happiness  he  disturbed,  but  whose  innocence  he  never  triumphed 
over.  He  knows  that  like  an  evil  genius,  he  has  pursued  my 
wandering  footsteps,  heaping  sorrow  upon  sorrow  on  me  by  his 
machinations;  but  he  also  knows,  when  encompassed  with 
those  sorrows,  perplexed  with  those  machinations,  I rose  superior 
to  them  all,  and  with  uniform  contempt  and  abhorrence  rejected 
his  offers.”  “ Depend  upon  it,”  cried  Mrs.  Connel,  “ she  hits 
been  an  actress.”  “ Yes,  madam,”  said  Amanda,  whose  strug- 
gling voice  confessed  the  anguish  of  her  soul,  “ upon-  a stage 
where  I have  seen  a sad  variety  of  scenes.”  “ Come,  come,” 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Connel,  “ confess  all  about  yourself  and 
Sipthorpe ; full  confession  will  entitle  you  to  pardon.”  “ It 
behooves  me,  indeed,”  said  Amanda,  “ to  be  explicit ; my 
character  requires  it,  and  my  wish,”  she  continued,  turning  to 
Mrs.  Rushbrook,  “ to  save  you  from  a fatal  blow  demands  it.” 
She  then  proceeded  to  relate  everything  she  knew  concerning 
Belgrave  ; but  she  had  the  mortification  to  find  her  short  and 
simple  story  received  with  every  mark  of  incredulity.  “ Beware, 
madam,”  said  she  to  Mrs.  Rushbrook,  “ of  this  infatuation  ; I 
adjure  you  beware  of  the  consequences  of  it.  Oh  ! doom  not 
your  innocent,  your  reluctant  Emily  to  destruction  ; draw  not 
upon  your  own  head  by  such  a deed  horrible  and  excruciating 
anguish.  Why  does  not  Mr.  Sipthorpe,  if  I must  call  him  so, 
appear,  and  in  my  presence  support  his  allegations  ? ” “I 
a^ed  him  to  do  sg^”_replied  Mrs.  Jlushbrook ; “ but  he  has 


494 


rm  chii^)REj\r  of  the  abbey. 


feeling,  and  he  wished  not  to  see  your  distress,  however  merited  it 
might  be.”  No,  madam,”  cried  Amanda,  ‘‘  he  refused,  because 
he  knew  that  withotrit  shrinking  he  could  not  behold  the  innocent 
he  has  so  abused ; because  he  knew  the  conscious  coloring  of 
his  cheek  would  betray  the  guilty  feelings  of  his  soul.  Again,  I 
repeat,  he  is  not  what  he  appears  to  be.  I refer  you  for  the  truth 
of  my  words  to  Sir  Charles  Bingley.  I feel  for  you,  though  you  have 
not  felt  for  me.  I know,  from  false  representations,  you  think 
me  a poor  misguided  creature  ; but  was  I even  so,  my  too 
evident  anguish  might  surely  have  excited  pity.  Pardon  me, 
madam,  if  I say  your  conduct  to  me  has  been  most  unkind. 
The  gentle  virtues  are  surely  those  best  fitting  a female  breast. 
She  that  shows  leniency  to  a fallen  fellow-creature,  fulfils  the 
Divine  precept.  The  tear  she  sheds  ovev  her  frailties  is  con* 
secrated  in  the  sight  of  Heaven,  and  her  compassion  draws  a 
blessing  on  her  own  head.  Oh  ! madam,  I once  looked  forward 
to  a meeting  with  you,  far,  far  different  from  the  present  one. 
I once  flattered  myself,  that  from  the  generous  friendship  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rushbrook,  I should  derive  support  and  con- 
solation ; but  this,  like  every  other  hope,  is  disappointed.” 
Amanda’s  voice  faltered*  at  these  last  words,  and  tears  again 
trickled  down  her  lovely  cheeks.  A faint  glow  tinged  the  pale 
cheek  of  Mrs.  Rushbrook  at  Amanda’s  accusation  of  unkindness. 
She  bent  her  eyes  to  the  ground  as  if  conscious  it  was  merited, 
and  it  was  many  minutes  ere  she  could  again  look  on  the  trem- 
bling creature  before  her.  “ Perhaps,”  said  she,  at  last,  “ I 
may  have  spoken  too  severely,  but  it  must  be  allowed  I had 
great  provocation.  Friendship  and  gratitude  could  not  avoid 
resenting  such  shocking  charges  as  yours  against  Sipthorpe.” 
“ For  my  part,  I wonder  you  spoke  so  mildly  to  her,”  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Connel ; I protest  in  future  I shall  be  guarded  who  I 
admit  into  my  house.  I declare  she  seemed  so  distressed  at 
the  idea  of  going  amongst  strangers,  that,  sooner  than  let  her 
do  so,  I believe,  if  Miss  Emily  had  not,  I should  have  offered 
her  part  of  my  iDed  ; but  this  distress  was  all  a pretext  to  get 
into  the  house  with  Mr.  Sipthorpe,  that  she  might  try  to  en- 
tangle him  in  her  snares  again.  Well,  I am  determined  she 
shall  not  stay  another  night  under  my  roof.  Ay,  you  may  stare 
as  you  please,  miss,  but  you  shall  march  directly.  You  are  not 
so  ignorant  about  London,  I dare  say,  as  you  pretend  to  be.” 

Mrs.  Connel  rose  as  she  spoke,  and  approached  her  with  a 
look  which  seemed  to  say  she  would  put  her  threat  into  execution. 
It  was  Amanda’s  intention  to  quit  the  house  the  next  morning, 
but  to  be  turned  from  it  at  such  an  hour,  a wanderer  in  the 
Street,  the  idea  was  replete  with  horror  1 She  started  up,  and 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


49S 

/retreating  a few  paces,  looked  at  Mrs.  Connel  with  a kind  of 
melanclioly  wildness.  Yes,”  repeated  Mrs.  Connel,  “ I say 
you  shall  march  directly.”  The  wretched  Amanda’s  head  grew 
giddy,  her  sight  failed,  her  limbs  refused  to  support  her,  and 
she  would  have  fallen  to  the  ground  had  not  Mrs.  Rushbrook, 
who  perceived  her  situation,  timely  caught  her.  She  was 
replaced  in  a chair,  and  water  sprinkled  on  her  face.  ‘‘  Be 
composed,  my  dear,”  said  Mrs.  Rushbrook,  whose  softened 
voice  proclaimed  the  return  of  her  compassion,  ‘‘you  shall  not 
leave  this  house  to-night,  I promise,  in  the  name  of  Mrs.  Con- 
nel. She  is  a good-natured  woman,  and  would  not  aggravate 
your  distress.”  “ Ay,  Lord  knows,  good-nature  is  my  foible,” 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Connel.  “ So,  miss,  as  Mrs.  Rushbrook  has 
promised,  you  may  stay  here  to-night.”  Amanda,  opening  her 
languid  eyes,  and  raising  her,  head  from  Mrs.  Rushbrook’s 
bosom,  said  in  a low,  tremulous  voice,  “To-morrow,  madam,  I 
shall  depart.  Oh  ! would  to  Heaven,”  cried  she,  clasping  her 
hands  together,  and  bursting  into  an  agony  of  tears,  “ before 
to-morrow  I could  be  rid  of  the  heavy  burden  that  oppresses 
me ! ” Well,  we  have  had  wailing  and  weeping  enough 
to-night,”  said  Mrs.  Connel,  “so,  miss,  you  may  take  one  of 
the  candles  off  the  table,  and  go  to  your  chamber  if  you  choose.” 

Amanda  did  not  require  to  have  this  permission  repeated. 
She  arose,  and  taking  the  light,  left  the  parlor.  With  feeble 
steps  she  ascended  to  the  little  chamber ; but  here  all  was  dark 
and  solitary,  no  cheerful  fire  sent  forth  an  animating  blaze  ; 
no  gentle  Emily,  like  the  mild  genius  of  benevolence,  appeared 
to  offer  with  undissembled  kindness  her  little  attentions.  For- 
saken, faint,  the  pale  child  of  misery  laid  down  the  candle,  and 
seating  herself  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  gave  way  to  deep  and 
agonizing  sorrow. 

“Was  I ever,”  she  asked  herself,  “blessed  with  friends 
who  valued  my  existence  as  their  own,  who  called  me  the 
beloved  of  their  hearts  ? Oh  I yes,”  she  groaned,  “ once  such 
friends  were  mine,  and  the  sad  remembrance  of  them  aggravates 
my  present  misery.  Oh ! happy  is  our  ignorance  of  futurity. 
Oh  I my  father,  had  you  been  permitted  to  read  the  awful  volume 
of  fate,  the  page  marked  with  your  Amanda’s  destiny  would 
rendered  your  existence  miserable,  and  made  you  wish  a 
thousand  times  the  termination  of  hers. 

" Oh,  Oscar  I from  another  hand  than  mine  must  you  receive 
^e  deed  which  shall  entitle  you  to  independence.  My  trials 
Slink  me  to  the  grave,  to  that  grave  where,  but  for  the  sweet 
hope  of  again  seeing  you,  I should  long  since  have  wished  my- 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


496 

self.’’  The  chamber  door  opened.  She  turned  her  eyes  to  it 
in  expectation  of  seeing  Emily,  but  was  disappointed  on  per^ 
ceiving  only  the  maid  of  the  house.  “ Oh  ! dear  ma’am,”  cried 
she,  going  up  to  Amanda,  ‘‘  I declare  it  quite  grieves  me  to  see 
you  in  such  a situation.  Poor  Miss  Emily  is  just  in  as  bad  a 
■plight.  Well,  it  is  no  matter,  but  I think  both  the  old  ladies 
will  be  punished  for  plaguing  you  in  this  manner.  Madam 
Rushbrook  will  be  sorry  enough,  when,  after  giving  her  daughter 
to  Mr.  Sipthorpe,  she  finds  he  is  not  what  he  seems  to  be.” 
Amanda  shrunk  with  horror  from  the  idea  of  Emily’s  destruction, 
and  by  a motion  of  her  hand,  signified  to  the  maid  her  dislike 
to  the  subject.  ‘‘  Well,  ma’am,”  she  continued,  ‘‘  Miss  Emily, 
as  I was  saying,  is  quite  in  as  bad  a plight  as  yourself.  They 
have  clapped  her  into  my  mistress’s  chamber,  which  she  durst 
not  leave  without  running  the  risk  of  bringing  their  tongues 
upon  her.  However,  she  contrived  to  see  me,  and  sent  you  this 
note.”  Amanda  took  it  and  read  as  follows  : — 

“ I hope  my  dear  Miss  Donald  will  not  doubt  my  sincerity,  when  I declare 
that  all  my  sorrows  are  heightened  by  knowing  I have  been  the  occasion  of 
trouble  to  her.  I have  heard  of  the  unworthy  treatment  she  has  received  m 
this  house,  and  her  intention  of  quitting  it  to-morrow.  Knowing  hei 
averseness  to  lodge  in  a place  she  is  unacquainted  with,  I have  been  speak- 
ing to  the  maid  about  her,  and  had  the  satisfaction  to  hear,  that,  through 
her  means,  my  dear  Miss  Donald  might  be  safely  accommodated  for  a short 
time  ; long  enough,  however,  to  permit  her  to  look  out  for  an  eligible 
situation.  I refer  her  for  particulars  of  the  conversation  to  the  maid, 
whose  fidelity  may  be  relied  on.  To  think  it  may  be  useful  to  my  dear 
Miss  Donald,  affords  me  the  only  pleasure  I am  now  capable  of  enjoying. 
In  her  esteem  may  I ever  retain  the  place  of  a sincere  and  affectionate 
friend.  E. 

And  where  is  the  place  I can  be  lodged  in  ? ” eagerly 
asked  Amanda.  Why,  ma’am,”  said  the  maid,  I have  a 
sister  who  is  housemaid,  at  a very  grand  place,  on  the  Rich- 
mond Road.  All  the  family  are  now  gone  to  Brighton,  and 
she  is  left  alone  in  the  house,  where  you  would  be  very  welcome 
to  take  up  your  residence  till  you  could  get  one  to  your  mind. 
My  sister  is  a sage,  sober  body,  and  would  do  everything  in 
her  power  to  please  and  oblige  you,  and  you  would  be  as  snug 
and  secure  with  her  as  in  a house  of  your  own  ; and  poor  Miss 
Emily  begged  you  would  go  to  her,  till  you  could  get  lodgings 
with  people  whose  characters  you  know.  And,  indeed,  ma’am, 
it  is  my  humble  opinion,  it  would  be  safe  and  pleasant  for  you. 
to  do  so  ; and,  if  you  consent,  I will  conduct  you  there  to-mor- 
row morning  ; and  I am  sure,  ma’am,  I shall  be  happy  if  I have 
the  power  of  serving  you.”  Like  the  Lady  in  Comus,  Amand«» 
might  have  said — • 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


4§? 


‘‘  I take  thy  word, 

* And  trust  thy  honest  offered  courtesy ; 

For  in  a place 

Less  warranted  than  this,  or  less  secure 
I cannot  be,  that  I should  fear  to  change  it : 

Eye  me,  blest  Providence,  and  square  my  trial 
To  my  proportioned  strength.” 

To  take  refuge  in  this  manner,  in  any  one’s  house,  was  truly 
repugnant  to  the  feelings  of  Amanda  ; but  sad  necessity  con* 
quered  her  scrupulous  delicacy,  and  she  asked  the  maid  at  wha/ 
hour  in  the  morning  she  should  be  ready  for  her. 

“ I shall  come  to  you,  ma’am,”  answered  she,  “ as  soon  as  1 
think  there  is  a carriage  on  the  stand,  and  then  we  can  go  to* 
gether  to  get  one.  But  I protest,  ma’am,  you  look  sadly.  1 
wish  you  would  allow  me  to  assist  in  undressing  you,  for  1 am 
sure  you  want  a little  rest.  I dare  say,  for  all  my  mistress  said, 
if  you  choose  it,  I could  get  a little  wine  from  her  to  make  whey 
for  you.”  Amanda  refused  this,  but  accepted  her  offer  of  as- 
sistance, for  she  was  so  overpowered  by  the  scenes  of  the  day, 
as  to  be  almost  unequal  to  any  exertion.  The  maid  retired 
after  she  had  seen  her  to  bed.  Amanda  entreated  her  to  be 
punctual  to  an  early’ hour,  and  also  requested  her  to  give  hei 
most  affectionate  love  to  Miss  Rushbrook,  and  her  sincere 
thanks  for  the  kind  solicitude  she  had  expressed  about  her. 
Her  rest  was  now,  as  on  the  preceding  night,  broken,  and  dis* 
turbed  by  frightful  visions.  She  arose  pale,  trembling,  and  un 
refreshed.  The  maid  came  to  her  soon  after  she  was  dressed, 
and  she  immediately  accompanied  her  down  stairs,  trembling 
as  she  went,  lest  Belgrave  should  suddenly  make  his  appear- 
ance, and  either  prevent  her  departure,  or  follow  her  to  her 
new  residence.  She  left  the  house,  however,  without  meeting 
any  creature,  and  soon  obtained  the  shelter  of  a carriage. 

As  they  proceeded,  Amanda  besought  the  maid,  who  seemed 
perfectly  acquainted  with  ever  thing  relative  to  Belgrave,  to 
tell  Miss  Rushbrook  to  be^'eve  her  assertions  against  him  ii 
she  wished  to  save  herself  from  destruction.  The  maid  assured 
her  she  would,  and  declared  she  always  suspected  Mr.  Sipthorpe 
was  not  as  good  as  he  should  be.  Amanda  soon  found  her- 
self as  the  end  of  her  little  journey.  The  house  was  elegant 
and  spacious,  with  a short  avenue  before  it  planted  with  chest- 
nuts. The  maid’s  sister  was  an  elderly-looking  woman,  who 
received  Amanda  with  every  appearance  of  respect,  and  con- 
ducted her  into  a handsome  parlor,  where  a neat  breakfast  wag 
laid  out.  “ I took  care,  ma’am,”  said  the  maid,  smiling,  “ to 
appii?^e  my  sister  last  night  of  the  honor  she  was  to  have  this 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


morning : and  I am  sure  she  will  do  everything  in  her  power  to 
oblige  you.  I thank  you  both/’  cried  Amanda,  with  her  usual 
sweetness,  but  while  she  spoke  a struggling  tear  stole  down 
her  lovely  cheek  at  the  idea  of  that  forlorn  situation  which  had 
thus  cast  her  upon  the  kindness  of  strangers — strangers  who 
were  themselves  the  children  of  poverty  and  dependence.  ‘‘  I 
hope,  however,  I shall  not  long  be  a trouble  to  either,  as  it  is  my 
intention  immediately  to  look  out  for  a lodging  amongst  the 
cottages  in  this  neighborhood,  till  I can  settle  my  affairs  to 
return  to  my  friends.  In  the  mean  time,  I must  insist  on  mak- 
ing some  recompense  for  the  attention  I have  received,  and 
the  expense  I have  put  you  to.”  She  accordingly  forced  a pres- 
ent upon  each,  for  both  the  women  appeared  unwilling  to  ac- 
cept them,  and  Mrs.  Deborah,  the  maid’s  sister,  said  it  was 
quite  unnecessary  at  present  to  think  of  leaving  the  house,  as 
the  family  would  not  return  to  it  for  six  weeks.  Amanda,  how- 
ever, was  resolved  on  doing  what  she  had  said,  as  she  could 
not  conquer  her  repugnance  to  continue  in  a stranger’s  house. 
Mrs.  Connel’s  maid  departed  in  a few  minutes.  Of  the  break- 
fast prepared  for  her,  Amanda  could  only  take  some  tea.  Her 
head  ached  violently,  and  her  whole  frame  felt  disordered.  Mrs. 
Deborah,  seeing  her  dejection,  proposed  showing  her  the  house 
and  garden,  which  were  very  fine,  to  amuse  her,  but  Amanda 
declined  the  proposal  at  present,  saying  she  thought  if  she  lay 
down  she  should  be  better.  She  was  immediately  conducted 
to  an  elegant  chamber,  where  Mrs.  Deborah  left  her,  saying 
she  would  prepare  some  little  nice  thing  for  her  dinner,  which 
she  hoped  would  tempt  her  to  eat.  Amanda  now  tried  to  com- 
pose her  spirits  by  reflecting  she  was  in  a place  of  security ; 
but  their  agitation  was  not  to  be  subdued  from  the  sleep  into 
which  mere  fatigue  threw  her.  She  was  continually  starting  in 
inexpressible  terrors.  Mrs.  Deborah  came  up  two  or  three 
times  to  know  how  she  was,  and  at  last  appeared  with  dinner. 
She  laid  a small  table  by  the  bedside,  and  besought  Amanda 
rise  and  try  to  eat.  There  was  a friendliness  in  her  manner 
which  recalled  to  Amanda’s  recollection  her  faithful  nurse 
Edwin,  and  she  sighed  to  think  that  the  shelter  of  her  h-timble 
cottage  she  could  no  more  enjoy  (should  such  a shelter  be  re- 
quired) from  its  vicinity  to  Tudor  Hall,  near  which  every  feel- 
ing of  propriety  and  tenderness  must  forbid  her  residing;  the 
sad  remembrance  of  which,  now  reviving  in  her  mind,  drew 
tears  from  her,  and  rendered  her  unable  to  eat.  She  thanked 
Mrs.  Deborah  for  her  attention,  but,  anxious  to  be  alone,  said 
s»be  would  no  longer  detain  her  ; yet  no  sooner  was  5he  %lone 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


499 

than  she  found  solitude  insupportable.  She  could  not  sleep, 
the  anguish  of  her  mind  was  so  great,  and  arose  with  the  idea 
that  a walk  in  the  garden  might  be  of  use  to  her.  As  she  was 
descending  the  stairs,  she  heard,  notwithstanding  the  door  was 
shut,  a man’s  voice  from  a front  parlor.  She  started,  for  she 
thought  it  was  a voice  familiar  to  her  ear.  With  a light  foot 
and  a throbbing  heart  she  turned  into  a parlor  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs  which  communicated  with  the  other.  Here  she  listened, 
and  soon  had  her  fears  confirmed  by  recollecting  the  voice  to 
be  that  of  Belgrave’s  servant,  whom  she  had  often  seen  in 
Devonshire.  She  listened  with  that  kind  of  horror  which  the 
trembling  wretch  may  be  supposed  to  feel  when  about  hearing 
a sentence  he  expects  to  be  dreadful. 

‘‘  Ay,  I assure  you,”  cried  the  man,  ‘‘  we  are  blown  up  at 
Mrs.  Connel’s,  but  that  is  of  little  consequence  to  us ; the 
colonel  thinks  the  game  now  in  view  better  than  that  he  has 
lost,  so  to-night  you  may  expect  him  in  a chaise  and  four  to 
carry  off  your  fair  guest.”  ‘‘  I declare,  I am  glad  of  it,”  said 
Mrs.  Deborah,  ^‘for  I think  she  will  die  soon.”  “ Die  soon  ! ” 
repeated  he.  Oh  1 yes,  indeed,  great  danger  of  that — ” and 
he  added  something  else,  which,  being  delivered  with  a violent 
burst  of  laughter,  Amanda  could  not  hear.  She  thought  she 
heard  them  moving  towards  the  door;  she  instantly  slipped 
from  the  parlor,  and,  ascending  the  stairs  in  breathless  haste, 
stopped  outside  the  chamber  door  to  listen.  In  a few  minutes 
she  heard  them  coming  into  the  hall,  and  the  man  softly  let  out 
by  Mrs.  Deborah.  Amanda  now  entered  the  chamber  and 
closed  the  door,  and  knowing  a guilty  conscience  is  easily 
alarmed,  she  threw  herself  on  the  bed,  lest  Mrs.  Deborah,  if 
^he  found  her  up,  should  have  her  .suspicions  awakened.  Her 
desperate  situation  inspired  her  with  strength  and  courage,  and 
she  trusted  by  presence  of  mind  to  be  able  to  extricate  herself 
from  it.  It  was  her  intention,  if  she  effected  her  escape,  to 
proceed  directly  to  London,  though  the  idea  of  entering  it,  with- 
out a certain  place  to  go  to,  was  shocking  to  her  imagination  ; 
yet  she  thought  it  a more  secure  place  for  her  than  any  of  the 
neighboring  cottages,  which  she  thought  might  be  searched. 
Mrs,  Deborah,  as  she  expected,  soon  came  up  to  her.  Amanda 
involuntarily  shuddered  at  her  appearance,  but  knowing  her 
safety  depended  on  the  concealment  of  her  feelings,  she  forced 
herself  to  converse  with  the  treacherous  creature.  She  at 
last  arose  from  the  bed,  declaring  she  had  indulged  her 
languor  too  much,  and,  after  a few  turns  about  the  room,  went 
to  the  window,  and  pretended  to  be  engrossed  in  admiring  the 


500 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


garden.  There  is  a great  deal  of  fruit  in  the  garden, said 
she,  turning  to  Mrs.  Deborah  ; if  I did  not  think  it  en- 
croached too  much  on  your  kindness,  I should  ask  for  a nec- 
tarine or  two.”  ‘‘Dear  ma'am,”  replied  Miss  Deborah,  “you 
are  heartily  welcome.  I declare  I should  have  offered  them 
to  you,  only  I thought  you  would  like  a turn  in  the  garden 
and  pull  them  yourself.”  “ No,”  said  Amanda,  “ I cannot  at 
present.”  Mrs.  Deborah  went  off,  and  Amanda  watched  at  the 
window  till  she  saw  her  at  the  very  end  of  the  garden  ; she 
then  snatched  up  her  hat,  and  tied  it  on  with  a handkerchief, 
the  better  to  conceal  her  face,  then  hastily  descended  the  stairs, 
and  locked  the  back  door  to  prevent  any  immediate  pursuit.  She 
ran  down  the  avenue,  nor  flagged  in  her  course  till  she  had  got 
some  paces  from  it ; she  was  then  compelled  to  do  so,  as  much 
from  weakness  as  from  fear  of  attracting  notice,  if  she  went  on 
in  such  a wild  manner.  She  started  at  the  sound  of  every  car- 
riage, and  hastily  averted  her  head  as  they  passed ; but  she 
reached  London  without  any  alarm  but  what  her  own  fears  gave 
her.  The  hour  was  now  late  and  gloomy,  and  warned  Amanda 
of  the  necessity  there  was  for  exertions  to  procure  a lodgings 
Some  poor  women  she  saw  retiring  from  their  little  fruit-stand, 
drew  a shower  of  tears  from  her,  to  think  her  situation  was 
more  wretched  than  theirs,  whom  but  a few  days  before  she 
should  have  considered  as  objects  of  compassion.  She  knew 
at  such  an  hour  she  would  only  be  received  into  houses  of  an 
inferior  description,  and  looked  for  one  in  which  she  could 
think  there  might  be  a chance  of  gaining  admittance.  She  at 
last  came  to  a small,  mean-looking  house.  “ This  humble  roof, 
I think,”  cried  she,  “ will  not  disdain  to  shelter  an  unhappy 
wanderer  ! ” She  turned  into  the  shop,  where  butter  and  cheese 
were  displayed,  and  where  an  elderly  woman  sat  knitting  be- 
hind the  counter.  She  arose  immediately,  as  if  from  surprise 
and  respect  at  Amanda's  appearance,  who  in  universal  agitation 
leaned  against  the  door  for  support,  unable  for  some  minutes 
to  speak.  At  last,  in  faltering  accents,  whilst  over  her  pale  face 
a crimson  blush  was  diffused,  she  said,  “ I should  be  glad  to 
know  if  you  have  any  lodgings  to  let?  ” 

The  woman  instantly  dropped  into  her  seat,  and  looked 
steadfastly  at  Amanda.  “ This  is  a strange  hour,”  cried  she, 
“ for  any  decent  body  to  come  looking  for  lodgings  ! ” “I  am 
as  sensible  of  that  as  you  can  be,”  said  Amanda,  “ but  peculiar 
circumstances  have  obliged  me  to  it ; if  you  can  accommodate 
me,  I can  assure  you  you  will  not  have  reason  to  repent  doing 
SO.''  “ Oh  1 I do  not  know  how  that  may  be,”  cried  she ; “it 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


SOI 

is  natural  for  a body  to  speak  a good  word  for  themselves  ; how- 
ever, if  I do  let  you  a room,  for  I have  only  one  to  spare,  I 
shall  expect  to  be  paid  for  it  beforehand/'  “ You  shall,  indeed," 
said  Amanda.  “ Well,  I will  show  it  you,"  said  she.  She  ac- 
cordingly called  a little  girl  to  watch  the  shop,  and,  taking  a 
candle,  went  up,  before  Amanda,  a narrow,  winding  flight  of 
stairs,  and  conducted  her  into  a room,  whose  dirty,  miserable 
appearance  made  her  involuntarily  shrink  back,  as  if  from  the 
den  of  wretchedness  itself.  She  tried  to  subdue  the  disgust  it 
inspired  her  with,  by  reflecting  that,  after  the  imminent  danger 
she  had  escaped,  she  should  be  happy  to  procure  any  asylum 
she  could  consider  safe.  She  also  tried  to  reconcile  herself  to 
it,  by  reflecting  that  in  the  morning  she  should  quit  it. 

“Well,  ma’am,"  said  the  woman,  “the  price  of  the  room  is 
neither  more  nor  less  than  one  guinea  per  week,  and  if  you  do 
not  like  it,  you  are  very  welcome  hot  to  stay."  “ I have  no  ob- 
jection to  the  price,"  replied  Amanda  ; “ but  I hope  you  have 
quiet  people  in  the  house."  “ I flatter  myself,  ma’am,"  said  the 
woman,  drawing  up  her  head,  “ there  is  never  a house  in  the 
parish  can  boast  a better  name  than  mine."  “ I am  glad  to 
hear  it,"  answered  Amanda;  “and  I hope  you  are  not  offended 
by  the  inquiry."  She  now  put  her  hand  in  her  pocket  for  the 
purse,  to  give  the  expected  guinea,  but  the  purse  was  not  there. 
She  sat  down  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  searched  the  other, 
but  with  as  little  success.  She  pulled  out  the  contents  of  both, 
but  no  purse  was  to  be  found.  “ Now — now,"  cried  she,  clasp- 
ing her  hands  together,  in  an  agony  which  precluded  reflection, 
“ now — now,  I am  lost  indeed  ! My  purse  is  stolen,"  she  con- 
tinued, “ and  I cannot  give  you  the  promised  guinea."  “ No, 
nor  never  could,  I suppose,"  exclaimed  the  woman.  “ Ah  1 I 
suspected  all  along  what  you  were ; — and  so  you  was  glad  my 
house  had  a good  name  ? I shall  take  care  it  does  not  lose 
that  name  by  lodging  you."  “ I conjure  you,"  cried  Amanda, 
starting  up,  and  laying  her  hand  on  the  woman’s,  “ I conjure 
you  to  let  me  stay  this  night ; you  will  not — you  shall  not  lose 
by  doing  so.  I have  things  of  value  in  a trunk  in  town,  for 
which  I will  this  instant  give  you  a direction."  “ Your  trunk  ! " 
replied  the  woman  in  a scornful  tone.  “ Oh  ! yes,  you  have  a 
trunk  with  things  of  value  in  it,  as  much  as  you  have  a purse 
in  your  pocket.  A pretty  story,  indeed.  But  I know  too  much 
of  the  ways  of  the  world  to  be  deceived  nowadays — so  marcJa 
directly." 

Amanda  again  began  to  entreat,  but  tne  woman  interrupted 
her,  and  declared,  if  she  did  not  depart  directly,  she  would  be 


$02 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


sorry  for  it.  Amanda  instantly  ceased  her  importunities,  anct 
in  trembling  silence  followed  her  down  stairs.  Oppressed  with 
weakness,  she  involuntarily  hesitated  in  the  shop,  which  the 
woman  perceiving,  she  rudely  seized  her,  and  pushing  her  from 
it,  shut  the  door.  Amanda  could  not  now,  as  in  former  exigen- 
cies, consider  what  was  to  be  done.  Alas  ! if  even  capable  of 
reflection^  she  could  have  suggested  no  plan,  which  there  was 
a hope  of  accomplishing.  The  powers  of  her  mind  were  over- 
whelmed with  horror  and  anguish.  She  moved  mechanically 
along,  nor  stopped,  till  from  weakness,  she  sunk  upon  the  step 
of  a door,  against  which  she  leaned  her  head  in  a kind  of 
lethargy ; but  from  this  she  was  suddenly  aroused  by  two  men 
who  stopped  before  her.  Death  alone  could  have  conquered 
her  terrors  of  Belgrave.  She  instantly  concluded  these  to  be 
him  and  his  man.  She  started  up,  uttered  a faint  scream,  and 
calling  upon  Heaven  to  defend  her,  was  springing  past  them^ 
when  her  hand  was  suddenly  caught.  She  made  a feeble  but 
\insuccessful  effort  to  disengage  it,  and  overcome  by  terror  and 
weakness  fell,  though  not  fainting,  unable  to  support  herself, 
upon  the  bosom  of  him  who  had  arrested  her  course.  ‘‘  Gracious 
Heaven  1 ’’  cried  he,  ‘‘  I have  heard  that  voice  before.’’ 

Amanda  raised  her  head.  “ Sir  Charles  Bingley  !”  she  ex- 
claimed. The  feelings  of  joy,  surprise,  and  shame,  that  per- 
v^aded  her  whole  soul,  and  thrilled  through  her  frame,  were,  in 
its  present  weak  state,  too  much  for  it,  and  she  again  sunk  upon 
his  shoulder.  The  joy  of  unexpected  protection — for  protection 
she  was  convinced  she  should  receive  from  Sir  Charles  Bingley 
— was  conquered  by  reflecting  on  the  injurious  ideas  her  present 
situation  must  excite  in  his  mind — ideas  she  feared  she  should 
never  be  able  to  remove,  so  strongly  were  appearances  against 
her. 

“ Gracious  Heaven  ! ” exclaimed  Sir  Charles,  is  this  Miss 
Fitzalan  ? Oh,  this,”  he  cried,  in  a tone  of  deep  dejection,  “ is 
indeed  a meeting  of  horror ! ” A deep  convulsive  sob  from 
Amanda  alone  proclaimed  her  sensibility,  for  she  lay  motionless 
in  his  arms — arms  which  involuntarily  encircled  and  enfolded 
her  to  a heart  that  throbbed  with  intolerable  anguish  on  her 
account  His  friend  stood  all  this  time  a spectator  of  the  scene, 
the  raillery  which  he  had  been  on  the  point  of  uttering  at  see- 
ing Amanda,  as  he  thought,  so  premeditately  fall  into  the  arms 
of  his  companion,  was  sropped  by  the  sudden  exclamation  of 
Sir  Charles.  Though  the  face  of  Amanda  was  concealed,  the 
gli1l|pmering  of  a lamp  over  their  heads  gave  him  a view  of  her 
fine'iorm,  and  the  countenance  of  Sir  Charles  as  he  bent  over 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


503 

her,  full  of  sorrow  and  dismay.  Miss  Fitzalan,’’  cried  Sir 
Charles,  after  the  silence  of  a minute,  “you  are  ill;  allow  me 
to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  home.’’  “ Home  ! ” re- 
peated Amanda,  in  the  slow  and  hollow  voice  of  despair,  and 
raising  her  languid  head,  “ alas  ! I have  no  home  to  go  to.” 

Every  surmise  of  horror  which  Sir  Charles  had  formed  from 
seeing  her  in  her  present  situation  was  now  confirmed.  He 
groaned,  he  shuddered,  and  scarcely  able  to  stand,  was  obliged 
to  lean  with  the  lovely  burden  he  supported  against  the  rails. 
He  besought  his  friend  either  to  procure  a chair  or  coach  in 
which  he  might  have  her  conveyed  to  a house  where  he  knew 
he  could  gain  her  admittance.  Touched  by  his  distress,  and 
the  powerful  impulse  of  humanity,  his  friend  instantly  went  to 
comply  with  his  request. 

The  silence  of  Amanda  Sir  Charles  imputed  to  shame  and 
illness,  and  grief  and  delicacy  forbade  him  to  notice  it.  His 
friend  returned  in  a few  minutes  with  a coach,  and  Sir  Charles 
then  found  that  Amanda’s  silence  did  not  altogether  proceed 
from  the  motives  he  had  ascribed  it  to  ; for  she  had  fainted  on 
his  bosom.  She  was  lifted  into  the  carriage,  and  he  again  re- 
ceived her  in  his  arms.  On  the  carriage  stopping,  he  committed 
her  to  the  care  of  his  friend,  whilst  he  stepped  into  the  house 
to  procure  a reception.  In  a few  minutes  he  returned  with  a 
maid,  who  assisted  him  in  carrying  her  up  stairs.  But  on  enter- 
ing the  drawing-room,  how  great  was  his  amazement,  when  a 
voice  suddenly  exclaimed,  “ Oh,  merciful  Powers ! this  is  Miss 
Donald  ! ” It  was  indeed  to  Mrs.  Connel’s  house,  and  to  the 
care  of  the  Rushbrooks,  whom  his  bounty  had  released  from 
prison,  he  had  brought  her.  He  had  previously  informed  them 
of  the  situation  in  which  he  found  her,  little  suspecting,  at  the 
time,  she  was  the  Miss  Donald  they  mentioned  being  under 
such  obligations  to. 

“ It  is  I,  it  is  I,”  cried  Mrs.  Rushbrook,  gazing  on  her  with 
mingled  horror  and  anguish,  “ it  is  I have  been  the  occasion  of 
her  distress,  and  never  shall  I forgive  myself  for  it.”  “ Oh, 
my  preserver,  my  friend,  my  benefactress  ! ” said  Emily,  clasping 
her  in  an  agony  of  tears  to  her  bosom,  “ is  it  thus  your  Emily 
beholds  you  } ” Amanda  was  laid  upon  a couch,  and  her  hat 
being  removed,  displayed  a face  which,  with  the  paleness  of 
death,  had  all  the  wildness  of  despair — a wildness  that  denoted 
more  expressively  than  language  could  have  done,  the  conflicts 
her  spirit  had  endured  ; heavy  sighs  announced  her  having  re- 
^ covered  from  her  fainting  fit ; but  her  eyes  still  continued  closed, 
And  her  head,  too  weak  to  be  self-supported,  rested  again^it  the 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


arm  of  the  couch.  Mrs.  Rushbrook  and  her  daughter  hung 
over  her  in  inexpressible  agonies.  If  they  were  thus  affected, 
oh  ! how  was  Sir  Charles  Bingley  distressed — oh  ! how  was  his 
heart,  which  loved  her  with  the  most  impassionate  tenderness, 
agonized!  As  he  bent  over  the  couch,  the  big  tear  trickled 
down  his  manly  cheek,  and  fell  upon  the  cold,  pale  face  he  con- 
templated. He  softly  asked  himself.  Is  this  Amanda  ? Is  this 
she,  whom  but  a short  time  ago  I beheld  moving  with  unequalled 
elegance,  adorned  with  unrivalled  beauty,  whom  my  heart  wor- 
shipped as  the  first  of  women,  and  sought  to  unite  its  destiny 
to,  as  the  surest  means  of  rendering  tnat  destiny  happy  ? Oh  I 
what  a change  is  here  ! How  feeble  is  that  form  ! how  hollow 
is  that  cheek  ! how  heavy  are  those  eyes  whose  languid  glance 
speak  incurable  anguish  of  the  soul ! Oh,  Amanda,  was  the 
being  present  who  first  led  you  into  error,  what  horror  and 
remorse  must  seize  his  soul  at  seeing  the  consequence  of  that 
error  ! “ Has  this  unhappy  young  creature,’’  asked  Rushbrook, 

who  had  approached  the  couch  and  viewed  her  with  the  truest 
pity,  “ no  connections  that  could  be  prevailed  on  to  save  her  ? ” 

‘‘  None  that  I know  of,”  replied  Sir  Charles  ; ‘‘her  parents  are 
both  dead.”  “ Happy  are  the  parents,”  resumed  Rushbrook, 

“ who,  shrouded  in  the  dust,  cannot  see  the  misfortunes  of  their 
children-*7the  fall  of  such  a child  as  this  1 ” glancing  his  tearful 
eyes  as  he  spoke  on  his  daughters. 

“ And  pray,  sir,”  said  Mrs.  Connel,  who  was  chafing  her  tem- 
ples with  lavender,  “ if  she  recovers,  what  is  to  become  of  her  ? 

“ It  shall  be  my  care,”  cried  Sir  Charles,  “ to  procure  her  an 
asylum.  Yes,  madam,”  he  continued,  looking  at  her  with  an 
expression  of  mingled  tenderness  and  grief,  “ he  that  must 
forever  mourn  thy  fate,  will  try  to  mitigate  it ; but  does  she  not 
want  medical  assistance  ? “ I think  not,”  replied  Mrs.  Con- 

nel ; “ it  is  want  of  nourishment  and  rest  has  thrown  her  into 
her  present  situation.”  “ Want  of  nourishment  and  rest  1 ” re- 
peated Sir  Charles.  “ Good  Heavens  1 ” continued  he,  in  the 
sudden  agony  of  his  soul,  and  walking  from  the  couch,  “ is  it 
possible  that  Amanda  was  a wanderer  in  the  'streets,  v/ithout 
food,  or  a place  to  lay  her  head  in  ? Oh,  this  is  dreadful  1 Oh  ! 
my  friends,”  he  proceeded,  looking  around  him,  whilst  his  eyes 
beamed  the  divine  compassion  of  his  soul,  “ be  kind,  be  careful 
of  this  poor  creature  ; but  it  is  unnecessary  to  exhort  you  to  this, 
and  excuse  me  for  having  done  so.  Yes,  I know  you  will  delight 
in  binding  up  a broken  heart,  and  drying  the  tears  of  a wretched 

outcast.  A short  time  ago,  and  she  appeared- ” he  stopped^  ^ 

oi'croome  by  his  emotiori^j  and  turned  away  his  head  to  wipe 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


50s 

away  his  tears.  A short  time  ago,’^  he  resumed,  and  she 
appeared  all  that  the  heart  of  man  could  desire,  all  that  a woman 
should  wish  and  ought  to  be.  Now  she  is  fallen,  indeed,  lost 
to  herself  and  to  the  world  ! ’’  ‘‘No,’’  cried  Emily,  with  gen- 

erous warmth,  starting  from  the  side  of  the  couch,  at  which  she 
had  been  kneeling,  “ I am  confident  she  never  was  guilty  of  an 
error.”  “ I am  inclined,  indeed,  to  be  of  Emily’s  opinion,”  said 
Mrs.  Rushbrook.  “ I think  the  monster,  who  spread  such  a 
snare  for  her  destruction,  traduced  Miss  Donald  in  order  to 
drive  her  from  those  who  would  protect  her  from  his  schemes.” 
“ Would  to  Heaven  the  truth  of  your  conjecture  could  be 
proved,”  exclaimed  Sir  Charles.  Again  he  approached  the 
couch.  Amanda  remained  in  the  same  attitude,  but  seeing 
her  eyes  open,  he  took  her  cold  hand,  and  in  a soothing  voice 
assured  her  she  was  safe  ; but  the  assurance  had  no  effect  upon 
her.  Hers,  like  the  “ dull,  cold  ear  of  death,”  was  insensible 
of  sound.  A faint  spark  of  life  seemed  only  quivering  through 
her  woe-worn  frame.  “ She  is  gone  ! ” cried  Sir  Charles,  press- 
ing her  hand  between  his  ; “ she  is  gone,  indeed  ! Oh  ! sweet 
Amanda,  the  mortal  bounds  that  enclose  thy  afflicted  spirit  will 
soon  be  broken  ! ” I trust  not,  sir,”  exclaimed  Captain  Rush- 
brook.  His  wife  and  daughter  were  unable  to  speak,  “ In 
my  opinion  she  had  better  be  removed  to  bed.” 

Amanda  was  accordingly  carried  to  a chamber,  and  Sir 
Charles  remained  in  the  drawing-room  till  Mrs.  Rushbrook  had 
returned  to  it.  She  informed  him  Miss  Donald  continued  in 
the  same  state.  He  desired  a physician  might  be  sent  for,  and 
departed  in  inexpressible  dejection. 


CHAPTER  LIII. 

**  Love,  gratitude,  and  pity  wept  at  once.” — Thomson. 

We  shall  now  account  for  the  incidents  in  the  last  chapter, 
Amanda’s  letter  to  the  Rushbrooks  filled  them  with  surprise 
and  consternation.  Mrs.  Rushbrook  directly  repaired  to  Mrs. 
Connel,  who,  without  hesitation,  gave  it  as  her  opinion  that  the 
whole  was  a fabrication,  invented  by  malice  to  ruin  Sipthorpe 
in  their  opinion,  or  else  by  envy  to  prevent  their  enjoying  the 
good  fortune  which  he  offered  to  their  acceptance.  Mrs.  Rush- 
brook was  inclined  to  be  of  the  same  opinion.  Her  mind  was 


5o6  the  children  of  the  abbet. 

sensibly  affected  by  the  favors  Sipthorpe  had  conferred  on  her 
family,  and,  yielding  to  its  gratitude,  she  resolved  to  be  guided 
implicitly  by  her  friend,  who  advised  her  to  show  the  letter  to 
him.  She  considered  this  the  best  measure  she  could  pursue. 
If  innocent,  he  would  be  pleased  by  the  confidence  reposed  in 
his  honor ; if  guilty,  his  confusion  must  betray  him.  But  Bel- 
grave  was  guarded  against  detection.  His  servant  had  seen 
Amanda  as  she  was  alighting  from  the  coach  the  evening  she 
arrived  in  town.  He  inquired  from  the  maid  concerning  her, 
and  learned  that  she  was  to  lodge  in  the  house,  and  go  by  her 
assumed  name.  These  circumstances  he  related  to  his  master 
the  moment  he  returned  home,  who  was  transported  at  the  in- 
telligence. From  her  change  of  name,  he  supposed  her  not 
only  in  deep  distress,  but  removed  from  the  protection  of  her 
friends,  and  he  determined  not  to  lose  so  favorable  an  opportu- 
nity as  the  present  for  securing  her  in  his  power.  He  instantly 
resolved  to  relinquish  his  designs  on  Emily — designs  which  her 
beautiful  simplicity  and  destitute  condition  had  suggested,.and 
to  turn  all  his  thoughts  on  Amanda,  who  had  ever  been  the 
first  object  of  his  wishes.  His  pride,  as  well  as  love,  was  inter- 
ested in  again  ensnaring  her,  as  he  had  been  deeply  mortified 
by  her  so  successfully  baffling  his  former  stratagems  ; he  knew 
not  of  the  manner  she  had  left  the  house.  Half  distracted  at 
what  he  supposed  her  escape  from  it,  he  had  followed  her  to 
Ireland,  and  remained  incognito  near  the  convent,  till  the  ap- 
pearance of  Lord  Mortimer  convinced  him  any  schemes  he 
formed  against  her  must  prove  abortive  ; but  to  concert  a plan 
for  securing  her  required  some  deliberation.  Ere  he  could  de- 
vise one  he  was  summoned  to  Mrs.  ConneFs  parlor  to  peruse 
the  letter,  and  from  the  hand  as  well  as  purport,  instantly  knew 
Amanda  to  be  its  author.  With  the  daring  effrontery  of  vice, 
he  directly  declared  she  was  a discarded  mistress  of  his,  who 
from  jealousy  had  taken  this  step,  to  prevent,  if  possible,  his 
union.  He  assured  them  her  real  name  was  not  Donald,  bid 
them  tax  her  with  that  deceit,  and  judge  from  her  confusion 
whether  she  was  not  guilty  of  that,  as  well  as  everything  else  he 
alleged  against  her.  His  unembarrassed  manner  had  the  ap- 
pearance of  innocence  to  his  too  credulous  auditors,  prejudiced 
as  they  were  already  in  his  favor,  and  in  their  minds  he  was 
now  fully  acquitted  of  his  imputed  crimes.  He  was  now  care- 
less whether  Amanda  saw  him  or  not  (for  he  had  before  stolen 
into  the  house),  being  well  convinced  nothing  she  could  allege 
against  him  would  be  credited.  When  night  approached  with- 
out bringing  her,  he  grew  alarmed  lest  he  had  lost  her  agum. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


sof 

At  last  her  return  relieved  him  from  this  fear.  The  conversa- 
tion which  passed  in  the  parlor  he  heard  through  the  means  of 
his  servant,  who  had  listened  to  it.  The  mention  of  Amanda’s 
removal  in  the  morning  made  him  immediately  consult  his  ser- 
vant about  measures  for  securing  her,  and  he,  with  the  assist- 
ance of  the  maid,  contrived  the  scheme  which  has  been  already 
related,  having  forged  a letter  in  Emily’s  name.  But  how  in- 
adequate is  language  to  describe  the  rage  that  took  possession 
of  his  soul,  when,  going  at  the  appointed  hour  to  carry  Amanda 
off,  be  found  her  already  gone.  He  raved,  cursed,  stamped, 
and  accused  the  woman  and  his  servant  of  being  privy  to  her 
escape.  In  vain  Mrs.  Deborah  told  him  of  the  trick  she  had 
played  on  her,  and  how  she  had  been  obliged  to  get  into  the 
house  through  the  window.  He  continued  his  accusations, 
which  so  provoked  his  servant,  conscious  of  their  unjustness, 
that  he  at  last  replied  to  them  with  insolence.  This,  in  the 
present  state  of  Belgrave’s  mind,  was  not  to  be  borne,  and  he 
immediately  struck  him  over  the  forehead  with  his  sword,  and 
with  a violence  which  felled  him  to  the  earth.  Scarcely  had  he 
obeyed  ere  he  repented  his  impulse  of  passion,  which  seemed 
attended  with  fatal  consequences,  for  the  man  gave  no  symptoms 
of  existence.  Consideration  for  his  own  safety  was  more  prev- 
alent in  his  mind  than  any  feelings  of  humanity,  and  he  instantly 
rushed  from  the  house,  ere  the  woman  was  sufficiently  recov- 
ered from  her  horror  and  amazement  to  be  able  to  call  to  the 
other  servants,  as  she  afterwards  did,  to  stop  him.  He  fled  to 
town,  and  hastened  to  an  hotel  in  Pall  Mall,  from  whence  he 
determined  to  hire  a carriage  for  Dover,  and  thence  embark  for 
the  continent.  Ascending  the  stairs  he  met  a man,  of  all  others 
he  would  have  wishjsd  to  avoid,  namely.  Sir  Charles  Bingley. 
He  started,  but  it  was  too  late  to  retreat.  He  then  endeavored 
to  shake  off  his  embarrassment,  from  a faint  hope  that  Sir 
Charles  had  not  heard  of  his  villanous  design  upon  Miss  Rush- 
brook  ; but  this  hope  vanished  the  moment  Sir  Charles  ad- 
dressed him,  who  with  coldness  and  contempt  said  he  would  be 
glad  to  speak  to  him  for  a few  minutes.  But  ere  we  relate  their 
conversation,  it  is  necessary  to  relate  a few  particulars  of  the 
Rushbrooks. 

Captain  Rushbrook,  from  knowing  more  of  the  deceits  of 
mankind  than  his  wife,  was  less  credulous.  The  more  he  re- 
flected on  the  letter  the  more  he  felt  doubts  obtruding  on  his 
mind,  and  he  resolved  sooner  to  forfeit  the  friendship  of  Sip- 
thorpe  than  permit  any  further  intercourse  between  him  and  his 
daughter  till  those  doubts  were  removed.  He  sent  his  son  to 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


508 

Sir  Charles’s  agent,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  hearing  he  was 
then  in  town,  and  lodged  at  an  hotel  in  Pall  Mall.  Pie  imme- 
diately wrote  to  Sir  Charles,  and  requested  to  see  him  when- 
ever he  was  at  leisure  ; adding,  he  was  well  convinced  his 
benevolence  would  excuse  the  liberty  he  had  taken,  when 
informed  of  the  purpose  for  which  his  visit  was  requested.  Sir 
Charles  was  fortunately  within,  and  directly  attended  little 
Rushbrook  to  the  prison.  The  letter  had  filled  him  with  sur- 
prise, but  that  surprise  gave  way,  the  moment  he  entered  the 
wretched  apartment  of  Rushbrook,  to  the  powerful  emotions  of 
pity.  A scene  more  distressing  he  had  never  seen,  or  could 
not  have  conceived.  He  saw  the  emaciated  form  of  the  sol- 
dier, for  such  his  dress  announced  him,  seated  beside  a dying 
fire,  his  little  children  surrounding  him,  whose  faded  counter 
nances  denoted  their  keen  participation  of  his  grief,  and  the 
sad  partner  of  his  misery  bending  her  eyes  upon  those  children 
with  mingled  love  and  sorrow. 

Rushbrook  was  unable  to  speak  for  a few  minutes  after  his 
entrance.  When  he  recovered  his  voice,  he  thanked  him  for 
the  kind  attention  he  had  paid  his  request,  briefly  informed 
him  of  the  motives  for  that  request,  and  ended  by  putting 
Amanda’s  letter  into  his  hand.  Sir  Charles  perused  it  with 
horror  and  amazement.  Gracious  Heaven  ! ” he  exclaimed, 
‘‘  what  a monster  ! I know  not  the  lady  who  has  referred  you 
to  me,  but  I can  testify  the  truth  of  her  allegations.  I am 
shocked  to  think  such  a monster  as  Belgrave  exists.” 

Shocked  at  the  idea  of  the  destruction  she  was  so  near 
devoting  her  daughter  to,  disappointed  in  the  hopes  she  enter- 
tained of  having  her  family  liberated  from  prison,  and  struck 
with  remorse  for  her  conduct  to  Amanda,  Mrs.  Rushbrook  fell 
fainting  to  the  floor,  overpowered  by  her  painful  emotions.  Sir 
Charles  aided  in  raising  her  from  it,  for  the  trembling  hand  of 
Rushbrook  refused  its  assistance.  “ Unhappy  woman  ! ” he 
exclaimed,  the  disappointment  of  her  hopes  is  too  much  for 
her  feeble  frame.”  Water,  the  only  restorative  in  the  room, 
being  sprinkled  on  her  face,  she  slowly  revived,  and  the  first 
object  she  beheld  was  the  pale  and  weeping  Emily,  whom  her 
father  had  insisted  on  being  brought  to  the  prison.  Oh,  my 
child,”  she  cried,  clasping  her  to  her  bosom,  can  you  forgive 
the  mother  who  was  so  near  devoting  you  to  destruction  ? ‘‘  Oh  ! 
my  children,  for  your  sake,  how  near  was  I sacrificing  this  dear, 
this  precious  girl ! I blush  ! I shudder ! when  I reflect  on  my 
conduct  to  the  unhappy  young  creature,  who,  like  a guardian 
angei,  interposed  between  my  child  and  ruin.  But  these  dreary 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


509 

walls,’’  she  continued,  bursting  into  an  agony  of  tears,  “ whicli 
now  we  must  never  hope  to  pass,  will  hide  my  shame  and  sor- 
rows  together  ! ” ‘‘  Do  not  despair,  my  dear  madam,”  said  Sh 

Charles,  in  the  soft  accent  of  benevolence,  nor  do  you,”  con- 
tinued he,  turning  to  Rushbrook,  “deem  me  impertinent  in  in- 
quiring into  those  sorrows.”  His  accent,  his  manner,  were  so 
soothing,  that  these  children  of  misery,  who  had  long  been 
strangers  to  the  voice  of  kindness,  gave  him,  with  tears,  and 
sighs,  a short  relation  of  their  sorrows.  He  heard  them  with 
deep  attention,  and,  when  he  departed,  gave  them  such  a smile 
as,  we  may  suppose,  would  beam  from  an  angel,  if  sent  by 
Heaven  to  pour  the  balm  of  comfort  and  mercy  over  the  sor- 
rows of  a bursting  heart. 

He  returned  early  in  the  morning.  How  bright,  how  ani- 
mated was  his  countenance  ! Oh,  ye  sons  of  riot  and  extrav- 
agance ! ye  children  of  dissipation  ! never  did  ye  experience  a 
pleasure  equal  to  his,  when  he  entered  the  apartment  of  Rush- 
brook  to  inform  him  he  was  free  ; when,  in  the  impassioned,  yet 
faltering  accents  of  sensibility,  he  communicated  the  joyful 
tidings,  and  heard  the  little  children  repeat  his  words,  while 
their  parents  gazed  on  each  other  with  surprise  and  rapture. 

Rushbrook  at  length  attempted  to  pour  out  the  fulness  of 
his  heart,  but  Sir  Charles  stopped  him.  “ Blessed  with  a for- 
tune,” cried  he,  “ beyond  my  wants,  to  what  nobler  purpose 
could  superfluous  wealth  be  devoted,  than  to  the  enlargement 
of  a man  who  has  served  his  country,  and  who  has  a family 
which  he  may  bring  up  to  act  as  he  has  done  ? May  the  res- 
toration of  liberty  be  productive  of  every  happiness  ! Your 
prison  gates,  I rejoice  to  repeat,  are  open.  May  the  friendship 
which  commenced  within  these  walls  be  lasting  as  our  lives  ! ” 
To  dwell  longer  on  this  subject  is  unnecessary.  The  trans- 
ported family  were  conveyed  to  Mrs.  Connel’s,  where  he  had 
been  the  preceding  night  to  order  everything  for  their  recep- 
tion. He  then  inquired  about  Sipthorpe,  or  rather  Belgrave, 
whom  he  meant  to  upbraid  for  his  cruel  designs  against  Miss 
Rushbrook  ; but  Belgrave,  as  soon  as  his  plan  was  settled  about 
Amanda,  had  quitted  Mrs.  Connel’s.  The  joy  of  the  Rush- 
brooks  was  greatly  damped  the  next  morning  on  hearing  of  the 
secret  departure  of  Amanda.  What  Belgrave  had  said  against 
her  they  never  would  have  credited,  but  for  the  appearance  of 
mystery  which  enveloped  her.  Still,  her  amiable  attention  to 
them  merited  their  truest  gratitude  ; they  wished  to  have  ex- 
pressed that  gratitude  to  her,  and  offer  her  their  services. 
Much  as  appearances  were  against  Amanda,  yet  from  the  very 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


510 

moment  Mrs.  Rushbrook  declared  it  her  idea  that  Belgrave  ha(} 
traduced  her  for  the  purpose  of  depriving  her  of  protection,  a 
similar  idea  started  in  Sir  Charles’s  mind,  and  he  resolved  to 
seek  Belgrave,  and  never  rest  till  he  had  discovered  whether 
there  was  any  truth  in  his  assertion,  against  Amanda.  Their 
meeting  at  the  hotel  was  considered  as  fortunate  as  unexpected 
by  him  ; yet  could  he  not  disguise  for  a moment  the  contempt 
his  character  inspired  him  with.  He  reproached  him  as  soon 
as  they  entered  an  apartment,  for  his  base  designs  against  Miss 
Rushbrook  ; designs  in  every  respect  degrading  to  his  character, 
since  he  knew  the  blow  he  levelled  at  the  peace  of  her  father, 
could  not,  from  the  unfortunate  situation  of  that  father,  be  re- 
sented. ‘*You  are,”  continued  Sir  Charles,  ‘‘not  only  the 
violator,  but  the  defamer  of  female  innocence.  I am  well  con- 
vinced from  reflection  on  past  and  present  circumstances,  that 
your  allegations  against  Miss  Fitzalan  were  as  false  as  vile.” 
“ You  may  doubt  them.  Sir  Charles,”  replied  Belgrave,  “ if  it  is 
agreeable  to  you ; but  yet,  as  a friend,  I advise  you  not  to  let 
every  one  know  you  are  her  champion.”  “ Oh,  Belgrave ! ” 
cried  Sir  Charles,  “ can  you  think  without  remorse,  of  having 
destroyed  not  only  the  reputation,  but  the  existence  of  an  ami- 
able young  creature  ? ” “ The  existence  ! ” repeated  Belgrave, 

starting,  and  with  a kind  of  horror  in  his  look.  “ What  do  you 
mean  ? ” “I  mean  that  Amanda  Fitzalan,  involved  through 
your  means  in  a variety  of  wretchedness  she  was  unable  to  sup- 
port, is  now  on  her  death-bed  ! ” Belgrave  changed  color, 
trembled,  and  in  an  agitated  voice,  demanded  an  explanation 
of  Sir  Charles’s  words. 

Sir  Charles  saw  his  feelings  were  touched,  and  trusting  they 
would  produce  the  discovery  he  wished,  briefly  gave  him  the 
particulars  he  asked  for. 

Amanda  was  the  only  woman  that  had  ever  really  touched 
the  heart  of  Belgrave.  His  mind,  filled  with  horror  and  ener- 
vated with  fear  at  the  idea  of  the  crime  he  had  recently  com- 
mitted, could  make  no  opposition  to  the  grief  he  experienced 
on  hearing  of  her  situation — a grief  heightened  almost  to  dis- 
traction, by  reflecting  that  he  was  accessory  to  it.  “ Dying  ! 
he  repeated,  “Amanda  Fitzalan  dying!  but  she  will  be  happ)  ! 
Hers  will  be  a pure  and  ministering  spirit  in  heaven,  when  mine 
lies  howling.  The  angels  are  not  purer  in  mind  and  person 
than  she  is  ! ” “ Then  you  are  an  execrable  villain,”  cried  Sir 

Charles,  la3dng  his  hand  on  his  sword.  “ Strike,”  exclaimed 
Belgrave,  with  an  air  of  wildness : “ death  will  rid  me  of  hor- 
rors, Death  from  you  will  be  better  than  the  ignominious  one 


THE  CHILD  REM  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


which  now  stares  me  in  the  face  ; for  I have,  oh,  horrible ! thig 
night  I have  committed  murder  ! ’’ 

Astonished  and  dismayed,  Sir  Charles  gazed  on  him  with 
earnestness.  ‘‘It  is  true  ! ” continued  he,  in  the  same  wild 
manner,  “it  is  true!  therefore  strike  I but  against  you  I will 
not  raise  my  hand  \ it  were  impious  to  touch  a life  like  yours, 
consecrated  to  the  purposes  of  virtue.  No,  I would  not  deprive 
the  wretched  of  their  friend.”  Sir  Charles,  still  shuddering  at 
his  words,  demanded  an  explanation  of  them  ; and  the  tortured 
soul  of  Belgrave,  as  if  happy  to  meet  any  one  it  could  confide 
in,  after  a little  hesitation,  divulged  at  once  its  crimes  and  hor- 
rors. “ No,”  cried  Sir  Charles,  when  he  had  concluded,  “ to 
raise  a hand  against  him  over  whom  the  arm  of  justice  is  up- 
lifted, were  cruel  as  well  as  cowardly.  Go,  then,  and  may 
repentance,  not  punishment,  overtake  you.”  To  describe  the 
raptures  Sir  Charles  experienced  at  the  acquittal  of  Amanda,  is 
impossible.  Not  a fond  father  rejoicing  over  the  restored  fame 
of  a darling  child,  could  experience  more  exquisite  delight. 
The  next  morning,  as  soon  as  he  thought  it  possible  he  could 
gain  admittance,  he  hastened  to  Mrs.  ConnePs,  and  had  the 
satisfaction  of  hearing  from  Mrs.  Rushbrook  that  Amanda  was 
then  in  a sweet  sleep,  from  which  the  most  salutary  conse- 
quences might  be  expected.  With  almost  trembling  impatience 
he  communicated  the  transports  of  his  heart,  and  his  auditors 
rejoiced  as  much  at  these  transports  on  Amanda’s  account  as 
on  his.  Mrs.  Rushbrook  and  Emily  had  sat  up  with  her  the 
preceding  night,  which  she  passed  in  a most  restless  manner, 
without  any  perception  of  surrounding  objects.  Towards 
morning  she  fell  into  a profound  sleep,  which  they  trusted 
would  recruit  her  exhausted  frame.  Mrs.  Rushbrook  then  with- 
drew to  her  husband.  It  was  past  noon  ere  Amanda  awoke. 
At  first  a pleasing  languor  was  diffused  through  her  frame, 
which  prevented  her  from  having  an  idea  of  her  situation  ; but 
gradually  her  recollection  returned,  and  with  it  anxiety  to  know 
where  she  was.  She  remembered,  too,  the  moment  she  had  met 
Sir  Charles,  but  no  further.  She  gently  opened  the  curtain, 
and  beheld — oh  I how  great  the  pleasure  of  that  moment — 
Emily  sitting  by  the  bedside,  who,  instantly  rising,  kissed  her 
cheek  in  a transport  of  affection,  and  inquired  how  she  did. 
Oh  ! how  delightful,  how  soothing  was  that  gentle  voice  to  the 
ears  of  Amanda  I The  softest  music  could  not  have  been 
more  grateful.  Her  heart  vibrated  to  it  with  an  exquisite 
degree  of  pleasure,  and  her  eyes  feasted  on  the  rays  of  be- 
la^volence  which  streamed  from  those  of  Emily.  At  last,  in 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


a faint  voice,  she  said  : I am  sure  I am  safe,  since  I am  with 
Emily/^ 

Mrs.  Rushbrook  entered  at  that  instant.  Her  delight  at 
the  restored  faculties  of  Amanda  was  equal  to  her  daughter's  ; 
yet  the  recollection  of  her  own  conduct  made  her  almost  re- 
luctant to  approach  her.  At  last,  advancing-,  I blush,  yet  I 
rejoice — oh  ! how  truly  rejoice — to  behold  you,"  she  exclaimed  ] 
‘‘  that  I could  be  tempted  to  harbor  a doubt  against  you  fills 
me  with  regret ; and  the  vindication  of  your  innocence  can 
scarcely  yield  you  more  pleasure  than  it  yields  me."  ‘‘The 
vindication  of  my  innocence  ! " repeated  Amanda,  raising  her 
head  from  the  pillow.  “ Oh,  gracious  Heaven  ! is  it  then 
vindicated  Tell  me,  I conjure  you,  how,  and  by  what 
means." 

Mrs.  Rushbrook  hastened  to  obey  her,  and  related  all  she 
had  heard  from  Sir  Charles.  The  restoration  of  her  fame 
seemed  to  reanimate  the  soul  of  Amanda,  yet  tears  burst  from 
her,  and  she  trembled  with  emotion.  Mrs.  Rushbrook  was 
alarmed,  and  endeavored  to  compose  her.  “ Do  not  be  un- 
easy," said  Amanda,  “those  tears  will  never  injure  me.  It  is 
long,  it  is  very  long,  since  I have  shed  tears  of  joy  ! " She 
implored  Heaven’s  choicest  blessings  on  Sir  Charles  for  his 
generosity  to  her,  his  benevolence  to  the  Rushbrooks.  Her 
heart,  relieved  of  a heavy  burden  of  anxiety  on  her  own  ac- 
count, now  grew  more  anxious  than  ever  to  learn  something 
of  her  poor  Oscar  ; and  notwithstanding  Mrs.  Rushbrook’s  en- 
treaties to  the  contrary,  who  feared  she  was  exerting  herself 
beyond  her  strength,  she  arose  in  the  afternoon  for  the  purpose 
of  going  to  the  drawing-room,  determined,  as  Sir  Charles’s  gen- 
erous conduct  merited  her  confidence,  to  relate  to  him  as  well 
as  to  Mrs.  Rushbrook  the  motives  which  had  brought  her  to 
town ; the  particulars  of  her  life  necessary  to  be  known  ; and 
to  request  their  assistance  in  trying  to  learn  intelligence  of  her 
brother.  Emily  helped  her  to  dress,  and  supported  her  to  the 
drawing-room.  Sir  Charles  had  continued  in  the  house  the 
whole  day,  and  met  her  as  she  entered  with  mingled  love  and 
pity  ; for  in  her  feeble  form,  her  faded  cheek,  he  witnessed  the 
ravages  of  grief  and  sickness.  His  eyes  more  than  his  tongue 
expressed  his  feelings,  yet  in  the  softest  accent  of  tenderness 
did  he  pour  forth  those  feelings,  whilst  his  hand  trembled  as  it 
pressed  hers  to  his  bosom.  “ My  feelings.  Sir  Charles,"  said 
she,  “ cannot  be  expressed  ; but  my  gratitude  to  you  will  cease 
bixt  with  my  existence." 

Sir  Charles  besought  her  to  be  silent  on  such  a subject 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


S13 

He  was  selfish,”  he  said,  “ in  everything  he  did  for  her,  for 
on  her  happiness  his  depended.” 

Rushbrook  approached  to  offer  his  congratulations.  He 
spoke  of  her  kindness,  but,  like  Sir  Charles,  the  subject  was 
painful  to  her,  and  dropped  at  her  request.  The  idea  of  being 
safe,  the  soothing  attentions  she  experienced,  gave  to  her  mind 
a tranquillity  it  had  long  been  a stranger  to,  and  she  looked 
ba«k  on  her  past  dangers  but  to  enjoy  more  truly  her  present 
security.  As  she  witnessed  the  happiness  of  the  Rushbrooks, 
she  could  scarcely  forbear  applauding  aloud  the  author  of  that 
happiness  ; but  she  judged  of  his  heart  by  her  own,  and  there- 
fore checked  herself  by  believing  he  would  prefer  the  silent 
plaudits  of  that  heart  to  any  praise  whatsoever.  After  tea,  when 
only  Sir  Charles,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rushbrook,  and  Emily,  were 
present,  she  entered  upon  the  affairs  she  wished  to  commu- 
nicate. They  heard  her  with  deep  attention,  wonder,  and  pity, 
and,  when  she  concluded,  both  Sir  Charles  and  Rushbrook 
declared  their  readiness  to  serve  her.  The  latter,  who  had  be- 
trayed strong  emotions  during  her  narrative,  assured  her  he 
doubted  not,  nay,  he  was  almost  convinced,  he  should  soon  be 
able  to  procure  her  intelligence  of  her  brother. 

This  was  a sweet  assurance  to  the  heart  of  Amanda,  and, 
cheered  by  it,  she  soon  retired  to  bed.  Her  strength  being  ex- 
hausted by  speaking,  she  sunk  into  a tranquil  slumber,  and  next 
morning  she  arose  for  breakfast.  ‘‘  Well,”  said  Rushbrook  to 
her  as  they  sat  at  it,  “ I told  you  last  night  I should  soon  be 
able  to  procure  you  intelligence  of  your  brother,  and  I was  not 
mistaken.”  ‘‘  On,  heavens  ! ” cried  Amanda,  in  trembling  emo- 
tion, ‘‘  have  you  really  heard  anything  of  him  ? ” Be  com- 
posed, my  dear  girl,”  said  he,  taking  her  hand  in  the  most 
soothing,  most  affectionate  manner,  “ I have  heard  of  him,  but 

” But  what  ? ” interrupted  Amanda,  with  increased 

emotion.  Why,  that  he  has  experienced  some  of  the  trials 
of  life.  But  let  the  reflection  that  these  trials  are  over,  pre- 
vent your  suffering  pain  by  hearing  of  them.”  ‘‘  Oh  ! tell  me, 
I entreat,”  said  Amanda,  where  he  is  I Tell  me,  I conjure 
you  ; shall  I see  him  ? ” Yes,”  replied  Rushbrook,  “you  shall 
see  him,  to  keep  you  no  longer  in  suspense.  In  that  dreary 
prison,  from  which  I have  just  been  released,  he  has  languished 
many  months.”  “ Oh,  my  brother  I ” exclaimed  Amanda,  while 
for  tears  gushed  from  her, 

“ I knew  not,”  continued  Rushbrook,  “ from  the  conceal- 
ment of  your  name,  that  he  was  your  brother,  till  last  night.  I 
then  told  Sir  Charles,  and  he  is  gone  this  morning  to  him  ; but 


THE  CHlLDRElsr  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


5U 

you  must  expect  to  see  him  somewhat  altered.  The  restora* 
tion  of  liberty,  and  the  possession  of  fortune,  will  no  doubt  soon 
re-establish  his  health.  Hark  I I think  I hear  a voice  on  the 
stairs.” 

Amanda  started,  arose,  attempted  to  move,  but  sunk  again 
upon  her  chair.  The  door  opened,  aud  Sir  Charles  entered, 
followed  by  Oscar.  Though  prepared  for  an  alteration  in  his 
looks,  she  was  not  by  any  means  prepared  for  an  alteration 
which  struck  her  the  moment  she  beheld  him.  Pale  and  thin, 
even  to  a degree  of  emaciation,  he  was  dressed,  or  rather 
wrapped,  in  an  old  regimental  great-coat,  his  fine  hair  wildly 
dishevelled.  As  he  approached  her,  Amanda  rose.  Amanda, 
my  sister  1 ” said  he,  in  a faint  voice.  She  tottered  forward, 
and  falling  upon  his  bosom,  gave  way  in  tears  to  the  mingled 
joy  and  anguish  of  the  moment.  Oscar  pressed  her  to  his 
heart.  He  gazed  on  her  with  the  fondest  rapture — yet  a rapture 
suddenly  checked,  by  surveying  the  alteration  in  her  appear- 
ance, which  was  as  striking  to  him,  as  his  was  to  her.  Hei 
pale  and  woe-worn  countenance,  her  sable  dress,  at  once  de- 
clared her  sufferings,  and  brought  most  painfully  to  recollection 
the  irreparable  loss  they  had  sustained  since  their  last  meeting. 

‘‘Oh,  my  father!”  groaned  Oscar,  unable  to  control  the 
strong  emotions  of  his  mind — “ Oh,  miy  father  1 when  last  we 
met  we  were  blessed  with  your  presence.”  He  clasped  Amanda 
closer  to  his  heart  as  he  spoke,  as  if  doubly  endeared  to  him 
by  her  desolate  situation 

“To  avoid  regretting  him  is  indeed  impossible,” said  Aman- 
da; “yet,  had  he  lived,  what  tortures  would  have  wrung  his  heart 
in  witnessing  the  unhappiness  of  his  children,  when  he  had  not 
the  power  of  removing  it ! ” “ Come,”  cried  Captain  Rush- 

brook,  whose  eyes,  like  those  of  every  person  present,  confessed 
his  sympathetic  feelings,  “ let  us  not  cloud  present  blessings  by 
the  retrospection  of  past  misfortunes.  In  this  life  we  must  all 
expect  to  meet  with  such  losses  as  you  lament.”  As  soon  as  Os- 
car and  Amanda  grew  composed,  they  were  left  to  themselves, 
and  Oscar  then  satisfied  the  anxious  and  impatient  heart  of  his 
sister,  by  informing  her  of  all  that  had  befallen  him.  He  began 
with  his  attachment  for  Adela,  and  the  disappointment  of  that 
attachment ; but  as  this  part  of  his  story  is  already  known,  we 
shall  pass  it  over  in  silence,  and  merely  relate  the  occasion  of 
his  quarrel  with  Belgrave. 


TMJi  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABEEn 


CHAPTER  LIV. 


But  thou  who,  mindful  of  the  unhonored  deadf 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate. 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 

Some  kindred  spirit  should  lament  thy  fate. 

Haply  some  hoary  headed  swain  may  say, 

Oft  have  I seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn. 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 

To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn.’' 

I LEFT  Enniskillen,”  said  Oscar,  in  the  utmost  distress  oi 
wind,  for  I left  it  with  the  idea  that  I might  no  more  behoid 
Adela.  Yet,  dear  and  precious  as  was  her  sight  to  my  soul.  I 
rejoiced  she  had  not  accompanied  the  regiment,  since  to  have 
beheld  her  but  as  the  wife  of  Belgrave  would  have  been  insup- 
portable. Had  the  disappointment  of  my  passion  been  occa- 
sioned by  its  not  meeting  a return,  pride  would  have  assisted 
me  to  conquer  it ; but  to  know  it  was  tenderly  returned,  at 
once  cherished  and,  if  possible,  increased  it.  The  idea  of  the 
happiness  I might  have  attained,  rendered  me  insensible  of  any 
that  I might  still  have  enjoyed.  I performed  the  duties  of  my 
situation  mechanically,  and  shunned  society  as  much  as  pos- 
sible, unable  to  bear  the  raillery  of  my  gay  companions  on  my 
melancholy. 

‘‘  The  summer  you  came  to  Ireland  the  regiment  removed 
to  Bray,  whose  romantic  situation  allowed  me  to  enjoy  many 
delightful  and  solitary  rambles.  It  was  there  a man  enlistedf, 
whose  manner  and  appearance  were  for  many  days  subjects  of 
surprise  and  conversation  to  us  all.  From  both,  it  was  obvious 
he  had  been  accustomed  to  one  of  the  superior  situations  in 
life.  A form  more  strikingly  elegant  I never  beheld.  The 
officers  made  many  attempts  to  try  and  discover  who  he  really 
was ; but  he  evaded  all  their  inquiries,  yet  with  the  utmost 
agitation.  What  rendered  him,  if  possible,  more  interesting, 
was  his  being  accompanied  by  a young  and  lovely  woman,  who, 
like  him,  appeared  sunk  beneath  her  original  state  ; but  to  theli 
present  one  both  conformed,  if  not  with  cheerfulness,  at  least 
with  resignation. 

Mary  obtained  work  from  almost  all  the  officers  ; Henry 
was  diligerr  in  his  duties ; and  both  were  universally  admired 
and  respectea.  Often,  in  my  lonely  rambles,  have  I surprised 
this  unfortunate  pair,  who,  it  was  evident,  like  me,  sought  soli- 
tude for  the  indulgence  of  sorrow,  weeping  together  as  if  over 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. . 


the  remembrance  of  happier  hours.  Often  have  I beheld  them 
gazing  with  mingled  agony  and  tenderness  on  the  infant  which 
Mary  nursed,  as  if  shuddering  at  the  idea  of  its  destiny. 

The  loveliness  of  Mary  was  too  striking  not  to  attract  the 
notice  of  Belgrave  ; and  from  her  situation  he  flattered  himself 
she  would  be  an  easy  prey.  He  was,  however,  mistaken.  She 
repulsed  his  overtures  with  equal  abhorrence  and  indignation. 
She  wished  to  conceal  them  from  her  husband,  but  he  heard  of 
them  through  the  means  of  his  fellow-soldiers,  who  had  several 
times  seen  the  colonel  following  his  wife.  It  was  then  he 
really  felt  the  bitterness  of  a servile  situation.  Of  his  wife  he 
had  no  doubt ; she  had  already  given  him  a convincing  proof 
of  constancy,  but  he  dreaded  the  insults  she  might  receive  from 
the  colonel.  The  united  vigilance  of  both  prevented,  however, 
for  some  time,  a repetition  of  those  insults.  Exasperated  by 
their  vigilance,  the  colonel  at  last  concerted  one  of  the  most 
diabolical  plans  which  could  have  entered  into  the  heart  of  man. 
A party  of  soldiers  were  ordered  to  the  sea-side  to  watch  there 
for  smuggled  goods.  Henry  was  named  to  be  of  the  party, 
but  when  the  soldiers  were  drawn  out  he  was  not  to  be  found. 
Belgrave’s  servant,  the  vile  agent  of  his  master,  had  informed 
him  that  the  colonel  meant  to  take  advantage  of  his  absence, 
and  visit  his  wife.  He  trembled  for  her  safety,  resolved  to  run 
every  risk,  sooner  than  leave  her  unguarded,  and  accordingly 
absconded  till  the  departure  of  the  party.  The  consequence  of 
this  was,  that  on  his  reappearance  he  was  put  under  an  arrest 
for  disobedience  of  orders,  tried  the  next  day,  and  sentenced 
to  be  flogged  on  the  following  one.  The  very  officers  that 
passed  the  sentence  regretted  it,  but  the  strictness  of  military 
discipline  rendered  it  unavoidable. 

“ I shall  not  attempt  to  describe  the  situation  of  the  un- 
happy  young  couple ; they  felt  for  each  other  more  than  for 
themselves,  and  pride  heightened  the  agonies  of  Henry. 

“ Pale,  weeping,  with  a distracted  air,  Mary  flew  to  my 
apartment,  and,  sinking  at  my  feet,  with  uplifted  hands  be- 
sought me  to  interpose  in  favor  of  her  husband.  I raised  the 
poor  mourner  from  the  ground,  and  assured  her,  yet  with  a 
sigh,  from  the  fear  of  proving  unsuccessful,  that  I would  do  ali 
in  my  power  to  save  him.  I therefore  hastened  to  the  colonel, 
to  ask  for  another  that  favor  I should  have  disdained  to  desire 
for  myself ; but  to  serve  this  wretched  couple,  I felt  I could 
almost  humble  myself  to  the  earth. 

“ The  colonel  was  on  the  parade  ; and,  as  if  aware  of  my  in- 
tention, appeared  sedulous  to  avoid  me.  But  I would  not  be 


T^Ji:  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


5^7 

repulsed  by  this,  and  followed  him,  entreating  his  attention  foi 
a few  minutes.  ‘ Dispatch  your  business  then  in  haste,  sir,’  ^^aid 
he,  with  an  unusual  haughtiness.  ‘ I shall,  sir,’  cried  I,  endeav- 
oring to  repress  the  indignation  his  manner  excited,  ‘ and  I 
also  hope  with  success.’  ‘ What  is  your  business,  sir  ? ’ de- 
manded he.  ‘ ’Tis  the  business  of  humanity,’  I replied,  ‘ and 
’tis  only  for  others  I could  ask  a favor.’ 

‘‘  I then  proceeded  to  mention  it.  Rage  and  malice  in- 
flamed his  countenance  as  I spoke.  Never,’ exclaimed  he, 
‘ shall  the  wretch  receive  pardon  from  me  ; and  I am  astonished 
at  your  presumption  in  asking  it.’  ‘ Yet  not  half  so  astonished,’ 
replied  I,  ‘ as  I am  at  your  obduracy.  Though,  why  do  I say 
so  ? from  your  past  actions,  I should  not  be  surprised  at  any 
act  you  may  commit.’ 

“ His  passion  grew  almost  to  frenzy  ; he  asked  me  if  I 
knew  whom  I was  addressing.  ‘ Too  well,’  I replied ; ‘ I 
know  I am  addressing  one  of  the  completest  villains  upon 
earth.” 

‘‘  He  raised  a small  rattan  he  held,  at  these  words,  in  a 
threatening  manner.  I could  no  longer  oppose  my  indignation. 
I rushed  upon  him,  wrested  it  from  his  hand,  broke  it,  and 
flung  it  over  his  head.  ‘Now,’  cried  I,  laying  my  hand  upon 
my  sword,  ‘ I am  ready  to  give  you  the  satisfaction  you  may 
desire  for  my  words — words  whose  truth  I will  uphold  with  my 
life.’  ‘No,’ said  he,  with  the  coolness  of  deliberate  malice; 
‘ ’tis  a far  different  satisfaction  I shall  expect  to  receive.  Some 
of  the  officers  had  by  this  time  gathered  round  us,  and  at- 
tempted to  interfere,  but  he  commanded  their  silence  in  a 
haughty  manner,  and  ordered  me  under  an  immediate  arrest. 
My  fate  I then  knew  decided,  but  I resolved  to  bear  that  fate 
with  fortitude,  nor  let  him  triumph  in  every  respect  over  me.  I 
was  confined  to  my  room,  and  Henry  the  next  morning  was 
brought  forth  to  receive  his  punishment.  I will  not,  my  sister, 
pain  your  gentle  heart  by  describing  to  you,  as  it  was  described 
to  me  by  an  officer,  his  parting  from  his  wife.  Pride,  indigna- 
tion. tenderness,  and  pity,  were  struggling  in  his  heart,  and 
visible  in  his  countenance.  He  attempted  to  assume  compos- 
ure, but  when  he  reached  the  destined  spot,  he  could  no  longer 
control  his  feelings.  The  idea  of  being  exposed,  disgraced, 
was  too  much  for  his  noble  soul.  The  paleness  of  his  face  in- 
creased. He  tottered,  fell  into  the  arms  of  a soldier,  and  ex- 
pired groaning  forth  the  nam.e  of  Mary.  Four  days  after  this 
melancholy  event  a court-martial  was  held  on  me,  when,  as  I 
e^^pected,  I was  broken  for  contempt  to  my  superior  officer.  I 


THE  CHILD  RE H OF  THE  ABBEY.^ 


5*8 

retired  to  a solitary  Inn  near  Bray,  in  a state  of  mind  which 
baffles  description,  destitute  of  friends  and  fortune,  I felt  in 
that  moment  as  if  I had  no  business  in  the  world.  I was  followed 
to  the  inn  by  a young  lieutenant  with  whom  I had  been  on  an 
intimate  footing.  The  grief  he  expressed  at  my  situation  roused 
me  from  almost  a stupefaction  that  was  stealing  on  me.  The 
voice  of  friendship  will  penetrate  the  deepest  gloom,  and  I felt 
my  sorrows  gradually  allayed  by  it.  He  asked  me  had  I fixed 
on  any  plan  for  myself.  I replied  I had  not,  for  it  was  vain  to 
fix  on  plans  when  there  were  no  friends  to  support  them.  He 
took  my  hand  and  told  me  I was  mistaken.  In  a few  days  he 
trusted  to  procure  me  letters  to  a gentleman  in  London  who 
had  considerable  possessions  in  the  West  Indies,  if  such  a 
thing  was  agreeable  to  me.  It  was  just  what  I wished  for,  and 
I thanked  him  with  the  sincerest  gratitude. 

In  the  evening  I received  a message  from  the  unfortunate 
Mary,  requesting  to  see  me  directly.  The  soldier  who  brought 
it  said  she  was  dying.  I hastened  to  her.  She  was  in  bed, 
and  supported  by  a soldier’s  wife.  The  declining  sunbeams 
stole  into  the  apartment,  and  shed  a kind  of  solemn  glory  around 
her.  The  beauty  that  had  caused  her  misfortunes  was  faded, 
but  she  looked  more  interesting  than  when  adorned  with  that 
bloom  of  beauty.  Sighs  and  tears  impeded  her  words  for  some 
minutes  after  I approached  her.  At  last,  in  a faint  voice  she 
said,  ‘ I sent  for  you,  sir,  because  I knew  your  goodness,  your 
benevolence  would  excuse  the  liberty.  I knew  you  would  think 
that  no  trouble  which  could  soothe  the  last  sad  moments  of  a 
wretched  woman.’ 

She  then  proceeded  to  inform  me  of  the  motives  which 
made  her  send — namely,  to  convey  her  infant  to  her  father,  a 
person  of  fortune  in  Dublin,  and  to  see  her  remains,  ere  I did 
so,  laid  by  those  of  her  husband.  Her  unfortunate  Henry,  she 
added,  had  been  son  to  a respectable  merchant.  Their  families 
were  intimate,  and  an  attachment  which  commenced  at  an  early 
period  between  them  was  encouraged.  Henry’s  father  experi- 
enced a sudden  reverse  of  fortune,  and  hers,  in  consequence  of 
it,  forbade  their  ever  thinking  more  of  each  other ; but  they 
could  not  obey  his  commands,  and  married  clandestinely,  thus 
forfeiting  the  favor  of  all  their  friends,  as  Henry’s  thought 
he  wanted  spirit,  and  hers  deemed  her  deficient  in  respect  to 
her  father.  They  were  therefore  compelled  by  necessity  to  a 
state  of  life  infinitely  beneath  them.  ‘ But  in  my  grave,’  con* 
tinned  she,  ‘ I trust  my  father  will  bury  all  his  resentment,  and 
protect  this  little  orphan.’ 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


S^9 

I promised  a religious  observance  to  her  commands,  and 
she  expired  in  about  an  hour  after  I quitted  her.  Mournful 
were  the  tasks  she  enjoined  me.  I attended  her  remains  to  th^ 
grave,  and  then  conveyed  her  child  to  Dublin. 

“ Startled,  amazed,  distressed,  her  father  too  late  regretted 
his  rigor,  and  received  her  infant  to  his  arms  with  floods  o! 
repentant  tears. 

I now  procured  my  recommendatory  letters,  and  sailed  foi 
England,  having  first  v/ritten  farewell  ones  to  my  father  and 
Mrs.  Marlowe,  in  which  I informed  both  I w^as  about  quitting  the 
kingdom.  As  soon  as  I had  procured  cheap  lodgings  in  Lon- 
don, I repaired  to  the  gentleman  to  whom  I was  recommended  ; 
but  conceive  my  consternation  wdien  I heard  he  was  himself 
gone  to  the  West  Indies.  I turned  into  a coffee-house,  with  an 
intention  of  communicating  this  intelligence  to  my  friend. 
While  the  waiter  was  getting  me  materials  for  writing,  I took  up 
a newspaper,  and  cast  my  eyes  carelessly  over  it.  Oh  ! my 
Amanda,  what  was  the  shock  of  that  moment,  when  I read  m} 
father’s  death  : grief  for  him,  anxiety  for  you,  both  assailed  my 
heart  too  powerfully  for  its  feelings.  My  heart  grew  giddy, 
my  sight  failed  me,  and  I fell  back  with  a deep  groan.  When 
recovered,  by  the  assistance  of  some  gentlemen,  I requested  a 
carriage  might  be  sent  for,  but  I was  too  weak  to  walk  to  if 
On  returning  to  my  lodgings,  I was  compelled  to  go  to  bed^ 
from  which  I never  rose  for  a fortnight.  During  my  illness  all 
the  little  money  I had  brought  along  with  me  w^as  expended, 
and  I was  besides  considerably  in  debt  with  the  people  of  the 
house  for  procuring  me  necessaries.  When  able  to  sit  up  the^ 
furnished  their  accounts,  and  I candidly  told  my  inability  to 
discharge  them.  In  consequence  of  this  I was  arrested,  and 
suffe^red  to  take  of  my  clothes  but  a change  or  two  of  linen. 
The  horrors  of  what  I imagined  would  be  a lasting  captivity 
were  heightened  by  reflecting  on  your  unprotected  situation, 
A thousand  times  was  I on  the  point  of  writing  to  inquire  into 
that  situation,  but  still  checked  myself  by  reflecting  that,  as  I 
could  not  aid  you,  I should  only  add  to  any  griefs  you  might  be- 
oppressed  with  by  acquainting  you  of  mine.  The  company  of 
Captain  Rushbrook  alleviated  in  some  degree  the  dreariness  of 
my  time.  I knew  I should  sustain  an  irreparable  loss  in  losing 
him,  but  I should  have  detested  myself  if  any  selfish  motives 
had  prevented  my  rejoicing  at  his  enlargement.  Oh  ! little  did 
I think  his  liberation  was  leading  the  way  to  mine.  Early  this 
morning  he  returned,  and  introduced  Sir  Charles  Bingley  to 
me.  Gently,  and  by  degrees,  they  broke  the  joyful  intelligence 


52^ 


rm  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


they  had  to  communicate.  With  truth  I can  aver  that  the  an- 
nouncement of  a splendid  fortune  was  not  so  pleasing  to  my 
heart  as  the  mention  of  my  sister’s  safety.  Of  my  poor  Adela 
I know  nothing  since  my  confinement ; but  I shudder  to  think 
of  what  she  may  have  suffered  from  being  left  solely  in  the 
power  of  such  a man  as  Belgrave,  for  the  good  old  general  died 
soon  after  I left  Enniskillen. 

“ ‘Regret  not  too  bitterly,  my  dear  Oscar,’  said  Mrs.  Mar- 
lowe, in  one  of  her  letters,  ‘ the  good  man’s  death  ; rather  re- 
joice he  was  removed  ere  his  last  hours  were  embittered  by  the 
knowledge  of  his  darling  child’s  unhappiness.’ 

“ Oh  ! my  sister  ! ” continued  Oscar,  with  a heavy  sigh,  while 
tears  fell  from  him,  and  mingled  with  those  Amanda  was  shed- 
ding, “ in  this  world  we  must  have  still  something  to  wish  and 
sigh  for.” 

Oscar  here  concluded  his  narrative  with  such  an  expression 
of  melancholy  as  gave  to  Amanda  the  sad  idea  of  his  passion 
for  Adela  being  incurable.  This  was  indeed  the  case  ; neither 
reason,  time,  nor  absence  could  remove  or  lessen  it,  and  the  ac- 
quisition of  liberty  or  fortune  lost  half  their  value  by  brooding 
over  her  loss. 

When  their  friends  returned  to  the  drawing-room  and  again 
offered  their  congratulations,  Oscar’s  dejection  would  not  per- 
mit him  to  reply  to  them.  When  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rushbrook 
spoke  of  the  happiness  he  might  now  enjoy,  he  listened  to  their 
recapitulation  of  it  as  to  a fulsome  tale,  to  which  his  heart  in 
secret  gave  the  lie.  An  innate  sense  of  piety,  however,  re- 
called him  to  a proper  recollection  of  the  blessings  so  unex- 
pectedly declared  to  be  his.  He  accused  himself  of  ingratitude 
to  Heaven  in  yielding  to  murmurs,  after  so  astonishing  a reverse 
in  his  situation.  Perfect  happiness  he  had  been  early  taught 
• — and  daily  experience  confirmed  the  truth  of  the  remark — was 
rarely  to  be  met  with  ; how  presumptuous  in  him,  therefore,  to 
repine  at  the  common  lot  of  humanity  : to  be  independent,  to 
have  the  means  of  returning  the  obligations  Sir  Charles  Bingley 
had  conferred  upon  him ; to  be  able  to  comfort  and  provide  for 
his  lovely  and  long-afiiicted  sister ; and  to  distribute  relief 
amongst  the  children  of  indigence,  were  all  blessings  which 
would  shortly  be  his — blessings  which  demanded  his  warmest 
gratitude,  and  for  which  he  now  raised  his  heart  with  thankful- 
ness to  their  divine  Dispenser.  His  feelings  grew  composed  : 
a kind  of  soft  and  serene  melancholy  stole  over  his  mind.  He 
still  thought  of  Adela,  but  not  with  that  kind  of  distracting 
anguish  he  had  so  recently  experienced  ; it  was  with  that  kind 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


S2I 


of  tender  regret  which  a soul  of  sensibility  feels  when  reflecting 
on  a departed  friend,  and  to  him  Adela  was  as  much  lost,  as  if 
already  shrouded  in  her  native  clay.  ‘‘  Yes,  my  love,”  he  said, 
as  if  her  gentle  spirit  had  already  forsaken  its  earthly  mansion, 
‘‘  in  that  happy  world  we  shall  be  reunited,  which  only  can 
reward  thy  goodness  and  thy  sufferings.” 

He  could  now  enter  into  conversation  with  his  friends  about 
the  measures  which  should  be  taken  to  forward  his  pretensions. 
It  was  the  opinion  of  Captain  Rushbrook  and  Sir  Charles,  that 
to  make  known  his  claim  to  the  Marquis  of  Roslin  was  all  that 
was  necessary ; a claim  which  they  did  not  imagine  he  would  or 
could  dispute,  when  such  proofs  of  its  validity  as  the  testimony 
of  Lady  Dunreath,  and  the  will,  could  be  produced.  Was  it 
disputed,  it  v/as  then  time  enough  to  apply  elsewhere  for  justice. 

Sir  Charles  knew  the  Marquis  personally,  and  was  also  well 
acquainted  in  his  neighborhood,  and  declared  he  would  accom- 
pany Oscar  to  Scotland.  Oscar  thanked  him  for  his  intention. 
The  support  of  a person  so  well  known,  and  universally  esteemed 
he  was  convinced,  would  essentially  serve  him.  Sir  Charles 
said,  regimental  business  required  his  presence  in  Ireland, 
which,  however,  would  occasion  no  great  delay,  as  he  should 
have  it  transacted  in  a few  days ; and  as  his  regiment  lay  netir 
Doriaghadee,  they  could  cross  over  to  Port-Patrick,  and,  in  a 
few  hours  after,  reach  the  Marquis  of  Roslin’s  Castle. 

The  day  after  the  next  he  had  fixed  for  commencing  his 
journey,  and  he  asked  Oscar  if  it  would  be  agreeable  and  ccii- 
venient  to  accompany  him  then.  Oscar  instantly  assured 
him  it  was  both.  Amanda’s  heart  fluttered  at  the  idea  of  a 
journey  to  Ireland.  It  was  probable,  she  thought,  that  they 
would  take  Wales  in  their  way  j and  her  soul  seemed  already 
on  the  wing  to  accompany  them  thither,  and  be  left  at  the 
cottage  of  nurse  Edwin,  from  whence  she  could  again  wander 
through  the  shades  of  Tudor  Hall,  and  take  a last,  a sad 
farewell  of  them  ; for  she  solemnly  determined  from  the 
moment  she  should  be  apprised  of  Lord  Mortimer’s  return 
to  P^nglanti  to  visit  them  no  more.  In  such  a farewell  she 
believed  she  should  find  a melancholy  consolation  that  would 
soothe  her  spirits.  She  imagined  there  was  no  necessity  for 
accompanying  her  brother  into  Scotland,  and  except  told  there 
was  an  absolute  one,  she  determined  to  decline  the  journey  if 
she  should  be  asked  to  undertake  it.  To  go  to  the  very  spot 
where  she  would  hear  particulars  of  Lord  Mortimer’s  nuptials 
she  felt  would  be  too  much  for  her  fortitude,  and  might  betray 
to  her  brother  a secret  .she  had  resolved  carefully  to  conceal 


522 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


from  him,  as  she  well  knew  the  pain  he  would  feel  from  know- 
ing that  the  pangs  of  a hopeless  attachment  were  entailed  upon 
her  life,  and  would  defeat  whatever  flattering  hopes  he  enter- 
tained for  her.  Exclusive  of  the  above-mentioned  objections, 
she  could  not  bear  to  go  to  a place  where  she  might  perhaps 
witness  the  pain  which  Lord  Mortimer  must  unavoidably  feel 
from  having  any  disgrace  befall  a family  he  was  so  nearly  con- 
nected with.  Oh,  how  her  heart  swelled  at  the  idea  that  ere 
Oscar  reached  Scotland,  the  interest  of  the  Marquis  of  Roslia 
and  Lord  Mortimer  would  be  but  one  ! From  her  apprehen* 
sions  of  being  asked  to  undertake  a journey  so  truly  repugnant 
to  her  feelings,  she  was  soon  relieved  by  Oscar’s  declaring  that, 
except  she  wished  it,  he  would  not  ask  her  to  take  so  fatiguing 
a one,  particularly  as  her  presence  he  could  not  think  at  all 
necessary. 

Sir  Charles  Bingley  assured  him  it  was  not ; though  in  a 
low  voice  he  said  to  her,  it  was  against  his  ov/n  interest  he 
spoke. 

She  would  now  have  mentioned  her  wish  of  going  to  Wales, 
had  not  a certain  consciousness  checked  her.  She  feared  her 
countenance  would  betray  her  motives  for  such  a wish.  While 
she  hesitated  about  mentioning  it.  Sir  Charles  Bingley  told 
Captain  Rushbrook,  that  he  had  applied  to  a friend  of  his  in 
power  for  a place  for  him,  and  had  been  fortunate  enough  to 
make  application  at  the  very  time  there  was  one  of  tolerable 

emolument  vacant,  at , about  seventy  miles  distant  from 

London,  whither  it  would  be  necessary  he  should  go  as  soon 
as  possible.  He  therefore  proposed  that  he  and  Mrs.  Rush- 
brook  should  begin  preparations  for  their  journey  the  ensuing 
morning,  and  exert  themselves  to  be  able  to  undertake  it  in  the 
course  of  the  week. 

They  were  all  rapture  and  gratitude  at  this  intelligence, 
which  opened  a prospect  of  support  through  their  own  means, 
as  the  bread  of  independence,  however  hardly  earned,  which 
here  was  not  the  case,  must  ever  be  sweet  to  souls  of  sensi- 
bility. 

Oscar  looked  with  anxiety  at  his  sister,  on  the  mention  of 
the  Rushbrook’s  removal  from  town,  as  if  to  say,  to  whose  care 
then  can  I intrust  you  ? Mrs.  Rushbrook  interpreted  his  look, 
and  instantly  requested  that  Miss  Fitzalan  might  accompany 
them,  declaring  her  society  would  render  their  felicity  complete. 
This  was  the  moment  for  Amanda  to  speak.  She  took  courage, 
and  mentioned  her  earnest  wish  of  visiting  her  faithful  nurse, 
declaring  she  could  not  lose  so  favorable  an  opportunity  as  now 


12iE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


offered  for  the  gratification  of  that  wish,  by  accompanying  her 
brother  into  Wales.  Emily  pleaded,  but  Amanda,  though  with 
the  utmost  gratitude  and  tenderness,  as  if  to  soften  her  refusal, 
was  steady.  Oscar  was  pleased  with  his  sister’s  determination,  as 
he  trusted  going  into  what  might  be  called  her  native  air,  joined 
to  the  tender  care  of  nurse  Edwin,  would  recruit  her  health. 
Sir  Charles  was  in  raptures  at  the  idea  of  having  her  company 
so  far  on  their  way. 

Everything  relative  to  the  proceedings  of  the  whole  party 
was  arranged  before  dinner,  at  which  Sir  Charles  presided, 
giving  pleasure  to  all  around  him,  by  the  ineffable  sweetness  of 
his  manners.  He  withdrew  at  an  early  hour  at  night,  and  his 
friends  soon  after  retired  to  their  respective  chambers.  On 
entering  the  breakfast-room  next  morning,  Amanda  found  not 
only  her  brother  and  the  Rushbrooks,  but  Sir  Charles  Bingley 
there.  Immediately  after  breakfast,  he  drew  Oscar  aside,  and 
in  the  most  delicate  terms  insisted  on  being  his  banker  at 
present,  to  which  Oscar  gratefully  consented.  As  soon  as  this 
affair  was  settled,  he  put  a note  into  his  sister’s  hands,  to  pur- 
chase whatever  she  should  deem  necessary  ; and  she  went  out 
with  the  Rushbrooks,  who,  according  to  Sir  Charles’s  directions, 
began  preparations  for  their  journey  this  day.  After  their  re- 
turn, Sir  Charles  found  an  opportunity  of  again  making  an 
offer  of  his  hand  to  Amanda. 

The  sincere  friendship  she  had  conceived  for  him  made  her 
determine  to  terminate  his  suspense  on  her  account.  ‘‘Was  I 
to  accept  your  generous  proposal.  Sir  Charles,”  said  she,  “ I 
should  be  unworthy  of  that  esteem  which  it  will  be  my  pride  to 
retain  and  my  pleasure  to  return,  because  beyond  esteem  I can- 
not go  myself.  It  is  due  to  your  friendship,”  cried  she,  after 
the  hesitation  of  a moment,  whilst  a rosy  blush  stole  over  her 
lovely  face,  and  as  quickly  faded  from  it,  to  declare,  that  ere 
I saw  you,  the  fate  of  my  heart  v/as  decided.” 

Sir  Charles  turned  pale.  Ele  grasped  her  hands  in  a kind 
of  silent  agony  to  his  bosom,  then  exclaimed  : “ I will  not.  Miss 
Fitzalan,  after  your  generous  confidence,  tease  you  with  further 
importunity.” 


$24 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBE^'- 


CHAPTER  LV. 


“ I solitary  court 

The  inspiring  breeze.’*— Thomson. 

The  ensuing  morning,  Oscar,  Amanda,  and  Sir  Charles 
began  their  journey.  The  Rushbrooks,  who  regarded  Amanda 
as  the  cause  of  their  present  happiness,  took  leave  of  her  with 
a tender  sorrow  that  deeply  affected  her  heart.  The  journey 
to  Wales  was  pleasant  and  expeditious,  the  weather  being  fine, 
and  relays  of  horses  being  provided  at  every  stage.  On  the 
evening  of  the  third  day  they  arrived  about  sunset  at  the  vil- 
lage which  lay  contiguous  to  Edwin’s  abode  ; from  whence,  as 
soon  as  they  had  taken  some  refreshment,  Amanda  set  off,  at- 
tended by  her  brother,  for  the  cottage,  having  ordered  her  lug- 
gage to  be  brought  after  her.  She  would  not  permit  the  attend- 
ance of  Sir  Charles,  and  almost  regretted  having  travelled  with 
him,  as  she  could  not  help  thinking  his  passion  seemed  increased 
by  her  having  done  so.  ‘‘  How  dearly,’’  cried  he,  as  he  handed 
her  down  stairs,  ‘‘  shall  I pay  for  a few  short  hours  of  pleasure, 
by  the  unceasing  regret  their  remembrance  will  entail  upon 
me.” 

Amanda  withdrew  her  hand,  and,  bidding  him  farewell,  hur- 
ried on.  Oscar  proceeded  no  farther  than  the  lane,  which  led 
to  the  cottage,  with  his  sister.  He  had  no  time  to  answer  the 
interrogations  which  its  inhabitants  might  deem  themselves 
privileged  to  make.  Neither  did  he  wish  his  present  situation 
to  be  known  to  any  others  than  those  already  acquainted  with 
it.  Amanda  therefore  meant  to  say  she  had  taken  the  oppor- 
tunity of  travelling  so  far  with  two  particular  friends  who  were 
going  to  Ireland.  Oscar  promised  to  write  to  her  immediatel}'' 
from  thence,  and  from  Scotland,  as  soon  as  he  had  seen  the 
marquis.  He  gave  her  a thousand  charges  concerning  her 
health,  and  took  a tender  farewell.  From  his  too  visible  dejec- 
tion, Amanda,  rejoiced  she  had  not  revealed  her  own  sorrows 
to  him.  She  trusted  it  would  be  in  her  power,  by  soothing  at- 
tentions, by  the  thousand  little  nameless  offices  of  friendship, 
to  alleviate  his.  To  pluck  the  thorn  from  his  heart  which 
rankled  within  it  was  beyond  her  hopes.  In  their  dispositions, 
as  well  as  fates,  there  was  too  great  a similitude  to  expect  this, 

Amanda  lingered  in  the  walk  as  he  departed.  She  was  now 


THE  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


525 

in  the  very  spot  that  recalled  a thousand  fond  and  tender  re- 
membrances, It  was  here  she  had  given  a farewell  look  to 
Tudor  Hall ; it  was  here  her  father  had  taken  a last  look  at  the 
spire  of  the  church  where  his  beloved  wife  was  interred  ; it  was 
here  Lord  Mortimer  used  so  often  to  meet  her.  Her  soul  sunk 
in  the  heaviest  sadness.  Sighs  burst  from  her  overcharged 
heart,  and  with  difficulty  she  prevented  her  tears  from  falling.  All 
around  was  serene  and  beautiful ; but  neither  the  serenity  nor 
the  beauty  of  the  scene  could  she  now  enjoy.  The  plaintive 
bleating  of  the  cattle  that  rambled  about  the  adjacent  hills  only 
heightened  her  melancholy,  and  the  appearance  of  autumn, 
which  was  now  far  advanced,  only  made  her  look  back  to  the 
happy  period  when  admiring  its  luxuriance  had  given  her  de- 
light. The  parting  sunbeams  yet  glittered  on  the  windows  of 
Tudor  Hall.  She  paused  involuntarily  to  contemplate  it. 
Hours  could  she  have  continued  in  the  same  situation,  had  not 
the  idea  that  she  might  be  observed  from  the  cottage  made  her 
at  last  hasten  to  it. 

The  door  lay  open.  She  entered,  and  found  onily  the  nurse 
within,  employed  at  knitting.  Her  astonishment  at  the  appear- 
ance of  Amanda  is  not  to  be  described.  She  started,  screamed, 
surveyed  her  a minute,  as  if  doubting  the  evidence  of  her  eyes, 
then,  running  to  her,  flung  her  arms  about  her  neck,  and  clasped 
her  to  her  bosom.  Good  gracious  ! ’’  cried  she  ; ‘‘  well,  to  pe 
sure,  who  ever  would  have  thought  such  a thing  ? Well,  to  pe 
sure,  you  are  as  welcome  as  the  flowers  in  May.  Here  we  have 
peen  in  such  a peck  of  troubles  about  you.  Many  and  many  a 
time  has  my  good  man  said,  that  if  he  knew  where  you  were,  he 
would  go  to  you.’’  Amanda  returned  the  embraces  of  her  faith- 
ful nurse,  and  they  both  sat  down  together. 

Ah ! I fear,”  said  the  nurse,  looking  tenderly  at  her  for  a 
few  minutes,  you  have  been  in  a sad  way  since  I last  saw  you. 
The  poor  tear  captain,  alack  ! little  did  I think  when  he  took 
you  away  from  us,  I should  never  see  him  more.”  Amanda’s 
tears  could  no  longer  be  suppressed  ; they  gushed  in  torrents 
from  her,  and  deep  sobs  spoke  the  bitterness  of  her  feelings. 
‘‘  Ay,”  said  the  nurse,  wiping  her  eyes  with  the  corner  of  her 
apron,  ‘‘gentle  or  simple,  sooner  or  later,  we  must  all  go  the 
same  way  ; so,  my  tear  chilt,  don’t  take  it  so  much  to  heart. 
Well,  to  pe  sure,  long  pefore  this  I thought  I should  have  seen 
or  heard  of  your  being' greatly  married  ; put  I pelieve  it  is  true 
enough,  that  men  are  like  the  wind — always  changing.  An}' 
one  that  had  seen  Lord  Mortimer  after  you  went  away,  would 
never  have  thought  he  could  prove  fickle.  He  was  in  such 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


526 

grief,  my  very  heart  and  soul  pitied  him.  To  pe  sure,  if  I had 
known  where  you  were,  I should  have  told  him.  I comforted 
myself,  however,  by  thinking  he  would  certainly  find  you  out, 
when,  Lort ! instead  of  looking  for  you,  here  he’s  going  to  be 
married  to  a great  lady,  with  such  a long,  hard  name — a Scotch 
neiress,  I think  they  call  her.  Ay,  golt  is  everything  in  these 
days.  Well,  all  the  harm  I wish  him  is,  that  she  may  plague 
his  life  out.” 

This  discourse  was  too  painful  to  Amanda.  Her  tears  had 
subsided,  and  she  endeavored  to  change  it,  by  asking  after  the 
nurse’s  family.  The  nurse,  in  a hasty  manner,  said  they  were 
well,  and  thus  proceeded : ‘‘  Then  there  is  Parson  Howel.  I 
am  sure  one  would  have  thought  him  as  steady  as  Penmaen- 
mawr,  but  no  such  thing.  I am  sure  he  has  changed,  for  he 
does  not  come  to  the  cottage  half  so  often  to  ask  about  you  as 
he  used  to  do.’^ 

Amanda,  notwithstanding  her  dejection,  smiled  at  the 
nurse’s  anger  about  the  curate,  and  again  requested  to  hear 
particulars  of  her  family.  The  nurse  no  longer  hesitated  to 
comply  with  her  request.  She  informed  her  they  were  all  well, 
and  then  at  a little  distance  at  the  mill  in  the  valley.  She  also 
added,  that  Ellen  was  married  to  her  faithful  Chip ; had  a com- 
fortable cottage,  and  a fine  little  girl  she  was  nursing,  and  to 
whom,  from  her  love  to  her  tear  young  laty,  she  would  have 
given  the  name  of  Amanda,  but  that  she  feared  people  w^ould 
deem  her  conceited,  to  give  it  so  fine  a one.  The  nurse  said 
she  often  regretted  having  left  her  young  lady,  and  then  even 
Chip  himself  could  not  console  her  for  having  done  so.  Tears 
again  started  in  Amanda’s  eyes,  at  hearing  of  the  unabated  at- 
tachment of  her  poor  Ellen.  She  longed  to  see  and  congratu- 
late her  on  her  present  happiness.  The  nurse,  in  her  turn,  in- 
quired of  all  that  had  befallen  Amanda  since  their  separation, 
and  shed  tears  at  hearing  of  her  dear  child’s  sufferings  since 
that  period.  She  asked  about  Oscar,  and  was  briefly  informed 
he  was  well.  The  family  soon  returned  from  the  dance  ; and  it 
would  be  difficult  to  say  whether  surprise  or  joy  was  most  pre- 
dominant at  seeing  Amanda.  One  of  the  young  men  ran  over 
for  Ellen,  and  returned  in  a few  minutes  with  her,  followed  by 
her  husband,  carrying  his  little  child.  She  looked  wild  with 
delight.  She  clasped  Amanda  in  her  arms,  as  if  she  would 
never  let  her  depart  from  them,  and  wept  in  the  fulness  of  her 
heart.  Now,  now,”  cried  she,  “ I shall  be  quite  happy ; but 
oh  1 why,  my  dear  young  laty,  did  you  not  come  amongst  us  be- 
Sore  ? you  know  all  in  our  power  we  would  have  done  to  rei> 


THE  CHILDREN  OE  THE  ABBEY. 


527 


der  you  happy.’’  She  now  recollected  herself,  and  modestly 
retired  to  a little  distance.  She  took  her  child  and  brought  it 
to  Amanda,  who  delighted  her  extremely  by  the  notice  she  took 
of  it  and  Chip.  If  Amanda  had  had  less  cause  for  grief,  the 
attentions  of  these  affectionate  cottagers  would  have  soothed 
her  mind  ; but  at  present  nothing  could  diminish  her  dejection. 
Her  luggage  was  by  this  time  arrived.  She  had  brought  pres- 
ents for  all  the  family,  and  now  distributed  them.  She  tried 
to  converse  about  their  domestic  affairs,  but  found  herself  une- 
qual to  the  effort,  and  begged  to  be  shown  to  her  chamber. 
The  nurse  would  not  suffer  her  to  retire  till  she  had  tasted  her 
new  cheese  and  Welsh  ale.  When  alone  within  it,  she  found 
fresh  objects  to  remind  her  of  Lord  Mortimer,  and  consequently 
to  augment  her  grief.  Here  lay  the  book-case  he  had  sent  her. 
She  opened  it  with  trembling  impatience  ; but  scarcely  a vol- 
i!.me  did  she  examine  in  which  select  passages  were  not  marked, 
by  his  hand,  for  her  particular  perusal.  Oh  ! what  mementoes 
were  those  volumes  of  the  happy  hours  she  had  passed  at  the 
cottage  ! The  night  waned  away,  and  still  she  continued  weep- 
ing over  them.  She  could  with  difficulty  bring  herself  to  close 
the  book-case  ; and  when  she  retired  to  rest  her  slumbers  were 
short  and  un refreshing.  The  next  morning  as  she  sat  at  break- 
fast, assiduously  attended  by  the  nurse  and  her  daughters  (for 
Ellen  had  come  over  early  to  inquire  after  her  health),  Howel 
entered  to  pay  her  a visit.  The  previous  intimation  she  had 
received  of  the  alteration  in  his  sentiments  rendered  his  visit 
more  pleasing  than  it  would  otherwise  have  been  to  her.  His 
pleasure  was  great  at  seeing  her,  but  it  was  not  the  wild  and 
extravagant  delight  of  a lover,  but  the  soft  and  placid  joy  of  a 
friend.  After  his  departure,  which  was  not  soon,  she  accom- 
panied Ellen  to  view  her  cottage,  and  was  infinitely  pleased  by 
its  neatness  and  romantic  situation.  It  lay  on  the  side  of  a 
hill  which  commanded  a beautiful  prospect  of  Tudor  Hall. 
Everything  she  beheld  reminded  Amanda  of  Lord  Mortimer, 
even  the  balmy  air  she  breathed,  on  which  his  voice  had  so 
often  floated. 

The  sad  indulgence  of  wandering  through  the  shades  of 
Tudor  Hall,  which  she  had  so  eagerly  desired,  and  fondly  anti- 
cipated, she  could  not  longer  deny  herself.  The  second  even- 
ing after  her  arrival  at  the  cottage,  she  turned  her  solitary 
steps  to  them  ; their  deep  embowering  glens,  their  solitude, 
their  silence,  suited  the  pensive  turn  of  her  feelings.  Here,  un- 
disturbed and  unobserved,  she  could  indulge  the  sorrows  of 
her  heart ; and  oh  ! how  did  recollection  augment  those  sor* 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


528 

rows  by  retracing  the  happy  hours  she  had  spent  within  those 
shades.  A cold,  a death-like  melancholy  pervaded  her  feelings, 
and  seemed  repelling  the  movements  of  life.  Her  trembling 
limbs  were  unable  to  support  her,  and  she  threw  herself  on  the 
ground.  For  some  minutes  she  could  scarcely  breathe.  Tears 
at  length  relieved  her  painful  oppression,  she  raised  her  languid 
head,  she  looked  around,  and  wept  with  increasing  violence  at 
beholding  what  might  be  termed  mementoes  of  former  happi- 
ness. She  repeated  in  soft  and  tremulous  accents  the  name  of 
Mortimer ; but  as  the  beloved  name  vibrated  on  her  ear,  how 
did  she  start  at  recollecting  that  she  was  then  calling  upon  the 
husband  of  Lady  Euphrasia.  She  felt  a momentary  glow  upon 
her  cheeks.  She  arose,  and  sighed  deeply.  I will  strive  to 
do  right,’’  she  cried ; “ I will  try  to  wean  my  soul  from  remem- 
brances no  longer  proper  to  be  indulged.”  Yet  still  she  lin- 
gered in  the  wood.  The  increasing  gloom  of  ex^ening  rendered 
it,  if  possible,  more  pleasing  to  her  feelings,  whilst  the  breeze 
sighed  mournfully  through  the  trees,  and  the  droning  bat  flut- 
tered upon  the  air,  upon  which  the  wild  music  of  a harp,  from 
one  of  the  neighboring  cottages,  softly  floated. 

Amanda  drew  nearer  to  it.  It  looked  dark  and  melancholy. 
She  sighed — she  involuntarily  exclaimed,  “ Oh,  how  soon  will 
it  be  enlivened  by  bridal  pomp  and  festivity  ! ” She  now  recol- 
lected the  uneasiness  her  long  absence  might  create  at  the  cot- 
tage, and  as  soon  as  the  idea  occurred,  hastened  to  it.  She 
met  Edwin  in  the  lane,  who  had  been  dispatched  by  his  wife  in 
quest  of  her.  The  good  woman  expressed  her  fears,  that  such 
late  rambles  would  injure  the  health  of  Amanda  ; ‘‘  it  was  a sad 
thing,”  she  said,  to  see  young  people  giving  way  to  dismal 
fancies.” 

Amanda  did  not  confine  her  rambles  entirely  to  Tudor  Hall ; 
she  visited  all  the  spots  where  she  and  Mortimer  used  to  ram- 
ble together.  She  went  to  the  humble  spot  where  her  mother 
lay  interred.  Her  feelings  were  now  infinitely  more  painful 
than  when  she  had  first  seen  it.  It  recalled  to  her  mind,  in  the 
most  agonizing  manner,  all  the  vicissitudes  she  had  experienced 
since  that  period.  It  recalled  to  view  the  calamitous  closure 
of  her  father’s  life — the  sorrows,  the  distresses  of  that  life,  and 
she  felt  overwhelmed  with  grief.  Scarcely  could  she  prevent 
herself  from  falling  on  the  grave,  and  giving  way  in  tears  and 
lamentations  to  that  grief.  Deprived  of  the  dearest  connections 
of  life,  blasted  in  hopes  and  expectations — “ Oh  ! well  had  it 
been  for  me,”  she  cried,  had  this  spot  at  once  received  the 
mother  and  child ; and  yet,”  she  exclaimed,  after  a minute’s 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


529 

reflection  j “ oh  ! what,  my  God,  am  I,  that  I should  dare  to 
murmur  or  repine  at  thy  decrees  ? Oh  ! pardon  the  involuntary 
expressions  of  a woe-worn  heart,  of  a heart  that  feels  the  purest 
gratitude  for  thy  protection  through  past  dangers.  Oh ! how 
presumptuous,’’  she  continued,  “ to  repine  at  the  common  lot 
of  humanity,  as  the  lot  of  her,”  she  continued,  casting  her  tear- 
ful eyes  upon  the  grave,  where  the  last  flowers  of  autumn  were 
now  withering,  “ who  reposes  in  this  earthly  bed  ; who,  in  life’s 
meridian,  in  beauty’s  prime,  sunk,  the  sad  victim  of  sorrow, 
into  the  arms  of  death  ! Oh,  my  parents,  how  calamitous  were 
your  destinies  ! even  your  ashes  were  not  permitted  to  moulder 
together,  but  in  a happier  region,  3^our  kindred  spirits  are  now 
united.  Blessed  spirits,  your  child  will  strive  to  imitate  your 
example ; in  patient  resignation  to  the  will  of  Heaven,  she  will 
endeavor  to  support  life.  She  will  strive  to  live,  though  not 
from  an  idea  of  enjoying  happiness,  but  from  an  humble  hope 
of  being  able  to  dispense  it  to  others.” 

Such  were  the  words  of  Amanda  at  the  grave  of  her  mother, 
from  which  she  turned  like  a pale  and  drooping  lily,  surcharged 
with  tears.  At  the  end  of  a week,  she  heard  from  Oscar,  who 
told  her  in  the  course  of  a few  days  he  expected  to  embark  for 
Scotland.  Amanda  had  brought  materials  for  drawing  with 
her,  and  she  felfe  a passionate  desire  of  taking  views  of  Tudor 
Hall  j views  which,  she  believed,  would  ^deld  her  a melancholy 
pleasure  when  she  should  be  far  and  forever  distant  from  the 
spots  they  represented. 

This  desire,  however,  she  could  not  gratify  without  the  as- 
sistance of  her  nurse,  for  she  meant  to  take  her  views  from  the 
library,  and  she  feared  if  she  went  there  without  apprising  the 
housekeeper,  she  should  be  liable  to  interruption.  She,  there- 
fore, requested  her  nurse  to  ask  permission  for  her  to  go  there. 
The  nurse  shook  her  head,  as  if  she  suspected  Amanda  had  a 
motive  for  the  request  she  did  not  divulge.  She  was,  however, 
too  anxious  to  gratify  her  dear  child  to  refuse  complying  with  it, 
and  accordingly  lost  no  time  in  asking  the  desired  permission, 
which  Mrs.  Abergwilly  readily  gave,  saying — “ Miss  Fitzalan 
was  welcome  to  go  to  the  library  whenever  she  pleased,  and 
ahould  not  be  interrupted.” 

Amanda  did  not  delay  availing  herself  of  this  permission, 
but  it  was  some  time  after  she  entered  the  library,  ere  she  could 
compose  herself  sufficiently  for  the  purpose  which  had  brought 
her  to  it.  In  vain  did  nature  appear  from  the  windows,  display- 
ing the  most  beautiful  and  romantic  scenery  to  her  view,  as  if 
Xo  tempt  her  to  take  up  the  pencil.  Her  eyes  were  dimmed 


530 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


with  tears  as  she  looked  upon  this  scenery,  and  reflected  that 
he  who  had  once  pointed  out  its  various  beauties  was  lost  to  her 
forever.  By  degrees,  however,  her  feelings  grew  composed, 
and  every  morning  she  repaired  to  the  library’,  feeling,  whilst 
engaged  with  it,  a temporary  alleviation  of  sorrow. 

Three  weeks  passed  in  this  manner,  and  at  the  expiration  of 
that  period,  she  received  a letter  from  Oscar.  She  trembled  ir* 
the  most  violent  agitation  as  she  broke  the  seal,  for  she  saw  hy 
the  post-mark  he  was  in  Scotland ; but  how  great  was  her  sur- 
prise and  joy  at  the  contents  of  this  letter,  which  informed  her 
everything  relative  to  the  important  affair  so  lately  in  agitatviii, 
was  settled  in  the  most  amicable  manner ; that  the  avow^  of 
his  claim  occasioned  not  the  smallest  litigation  ; that  he  was 
then  in  full  possession  of  the  fortune  bequeathed  him  hy  the 
earl,  and  had  already  received  the  congratulations  of  the  neigh- 
boring families  on  his  accession,  or  rather  restoration  to  it. 
He  had  not  time,  he  said,  to  enumerate  the  many  pailiculars 
which  rendered  the  adjustment  of  affairs  so  easy,  and  limped  the 
pleasing  intelligence  his  letter  communicated  would  Ltone  for 
his  brevity  ; he  added,  he  was  then  preparing  to  set  off  for 
London  with  Sir  Charles  Bingley,  of  whose  friendship  he  spoke 
in  the  highest  terms,  to  settle  some  affairs  relative  to  his  new 
possessions,  and  particularly  about  the  revival  of  the  Dunreath 
title,  which  not  from  any  ostentatious  pride,  he  desired  to 
obtain,  as  he  was  sure  she  would  suppose,  but  from  gratitude 
and  respect  to  the  wishes  of  his  grandfather,  who  in  his  will  had 
expressed  his  desire  that  the  honors  of  his  family  should  be 
supported  by  his  heir.  When  everything  was  finally  settled,  he 
proceeded  to  say,  he  would  hasten  on  the  wings  of  love  and 
impatience  to  her,  for  in  her  sweet  society  alone  he  found  any 
balm  for  the  sorrows  of  his  heart,  sorrows  which  could  not  be 
eradicated  from  it,  though  fortune  had  been  so  unexpectedly 
propitious  ; and  he  hoped,  he  said,  he  should  find  her  then  gay 
as  the  birds,  blooming  as  the  flowerets  of  spring,  and  ready 
to  accompany  him  to  the  venerable  mansion  of  their  ancestors. 

The  joyful  intelligence  this  letter  communicated  she  had  not 
spirits  at  present  to  mention  to  the  inhabitants  of  this  cottage ; 
the  pleasure  it  afforded  was  only  damped  by  reflecting  on  what 
Lord  Mortimer  must  feel  from  a discovery  which  could  not  fail 
of  casting  a dark  shade  of  obloquy  upon  his  new  connections. 
She  was  now  doubly  anxious  to  finish  her  landscapes,  from  the 
prospect  there  was  of  her  quitting  Wales  so  soon.  Every  visit 
she  now  paid  the  library  was  paid  with  the  sad  idea  of  its  being 
the  last.  As  she  was  preparing  for  going  there  Qp.e  \norningj 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


S3I 

immediately  after  breakfast,  the  nurse,  who  had  been  out  some 
time  previous  to  her  rising,  entered  the  room  with  a look  of 
breathless  impatience,  which  seemed  to  declare  she  had  some- 
thing wonderful  to  communicate.  “ Goot  lack-a-taisy,’’  cried 
she,  as  soon  as  she  had  recovered  her  breath,  lifting  up  her 
head  from  the  back  of  the  chair  on  which  she  had  thrown  her 
self,  ‘‘  goot  lack-a-taisy,”  well,  to  pe  sure  there  is  nothing  but 
wonderful  things  happening  in  this  world ! Here,  old  Dame 
Abergwilly  sent  in  such  a hurry  for  me  this  morning  ; to  pe  sure 
I was  surprised,  but  what  was  that  to  the  surprise  I felt  when  I 
heard  what  she  had  sent  to  me  for.’’  It  was  now  Amanda’s 
turn  to  feel  breathless  impatience.  “ Good  heavens  ! ” she 
exclaimed,  “ what  did  she  tell  you  ? ” Ay,  I knew,”  cried  the 
nurse,  ‘‘  the  commotion  you  would  be  in  when  I told  you  the 
news ; if  you  were  guessing  from  this  time  till  this  time  to- 
morrow you  would  never  stumble  over  what  it  is.”  ‘‘  I dare 
say  I should  not,”  cried  Amanda,  so  do  be  brief.”  ‘‘  Why> 
you  must  know, — but  Lort,  my  tear  child,  I am  afraid  you  made 
but  a bad  breakfast,  for  you  look  very  pale ; inteed  I made  no 
great  one  myself,  for  I was  in  such  a hurry-flurry  with  what 
Mrs.  Abergwilly  told  me,  that  though  she  made  some  nice  green 
tea,  and  we  had  a slim  cake,  I could  scarcely  touch  anything.” 
“Well,”  said  Amanda,  tortured  with  anxiety  and  impatience, 
“ what  did  she  tell  you  ? ” “ Why,  my  tear  child,  down  came  a 

special  messenger  from  London  last  night,  to  let  them  know 
that  Lort  Cherbury  was  tead,  and  that  Lort  Mortimer  had  sold 
Tudor  Hall ; and  the  steward  is  ordered  to  pay  all  the  servants 
off,  and  to  discharge  them  ; and  to  have  everything  in  readiness 
against  the  new  lantlort  comes  down  to  take  possession.  Oh  ! 
Lort,  there  is  such  weeping  and  wailing  at  the  Hall ; the  poor 
creatures  who  had  grown  old  in  service,  hoped  to  have  finished 
their  tays  in  it ; it  is  not  that  they  are  in  any  fear  of  want — the 
young  lort  has  taken  care  of  that,  for  he  has  settled  something 
yearly  upon  them  all — but  that  they  are  sorry  to  quit  the  family. 
Poor  Mrs.  Abergwilly,  nothing  can  comfort  the  old  soul ; she 
has  neither  chick  nor  child,  and  she  told  me  she  loved  the  very 
chairs  and  tables,  to  which,  to  pe  sure,  her  hand  has  given 
many  a polishing  rub.  She  says  she  thinks  she  will  come  and 
lodge  with  me ; put  if  she  does,  she  says  I must  not  put  her 
into  a room  from  whence  she  can  have  a view  of  Tudor  Hall ; 
for  she  says  she  will  never  be  able  to  look  at  it  when  once  it 
gets  a new  master.  So  this,  my  tear  child,  is  the  sum  totem  of 
what  I have  heard.” 

Amanda  was  equally  astonished  and  affected  by  what  she 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


S32 

heard.  She  wished  to  know  if  the  nurse  had  received  any  in- 
telligence of  Lord  Mortimer’s  marriage,  but  she  could  not  bring 
herself  to  ask  the  question.  Besides,  upon  reflection,  she  was 
convinced  she  should  have  heard  it  had  it  been  the  case. 
With  Lord  Cherbury  di^d  all  hopes  or  the  restoration  of  hei 
fame  in  the  opinion  of  his  son,  Yet  why,”  she  asked  herself, 
should  I regret  this  ? since  thus  separated,  it  is  better,  per 
haps,  he  had  ceased  to  esteem  me,  as  undoubtedly  it  must 
lessen  his  feelings  on  my  account,”  Why  he  should  part  with 
Tudor  Hall  she  could  not  conceive,  except  it  was  to  humor 
some  caprice  of  Lady  Euphrasia’s,  who,  it  was  probable,  she 
imagined,  knew  that  the  attachment  between  Lord  Mortimer 
and  her  had  there  commenced 

‘‘  Ah  ! ” cried  Amanda,  ‘‘  she  never  could  have  relished  its 
beauties — beauties  which,  if  Lord  Mortimer  thinks  as  I do 
would,  if  reviewed,  only  have  augmented  his  sorrows — sorrows 
which  propriety  now  demands  his  repelling.”  She  hastened  to 
the  hall,  but  was  some  time  there  ere  she  could  commence  her 
employment,  so  much  had  she  been  agitated.  The  landscape 
she  was  finishing  was  taken  from  the  little  valley  which  lay  be- 
neath the  windows  of  the  music-room.  The  romantic  ruins  of 
an  old  castle  overhung  an  eminence  at  its  extremity  ; and  of  the 
whole  scene  she  had  taken  a most  accurate  copy ; it  wanted 
but  one  charm  to  please  her,  and  that  charm  was  the  figure  of 
Lord  Mortimer,  with  whom  she  had  often  wandered  round  the 
ruins.  Her  hand  was  ready  in  obeying  the  impulse  of  her 
heart,  and  ske  soon  beheld,  sketched  in  the  most  striking  man- 
ner, the  elegant  features  of  him  so  ardently  beloved.  She  gazed 
with  rapture  upon  them,  but  it  was  a short-lived  rapture. 
She  started,  as  if  conscious  she  had  committed  a crime, 
when  she  reflected  on  the  situation  in  which  he  now  stood 
with  another  woman  ; her  trembling  hand  hastened  to  atone 
for  its  error,  by  expunging  the  dangerous  likeness,  and 
the  warm  involuntary  tear  she  shed  at  the  moment,  aided 
her  design.  Oh  ! how  unnecessary,”  she  cried,  as  she  made 
this  sacrifice  to  delicacy,  “ to  sketch  features  which  are  in- 
delibly engraven  on  my  heart.”  As  she  spoke,  a deep  and  long- 
drawn  sigh  reached  her  ear.  Alarmed,  confounded  at  the  idea 
of  being  overheard,  and,  of  course,  the  feelings  of  her  heart 
discovered,  she  started  with  precipitation  from  her  seat,  and 
looked  round  her  with  a kind  of  wild  confusion.  But,  gracious 
Heavens  ! who  can  describe  the  emotions  of  her  soul  when  the 
original  of  the  picture  so  fondly  sketched,  so  hastily  oblitera- 
ted, met  her  eye.  Amazed,  unable  to  speak,  to  move,  almost 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


533 


(0  breathe,  she  stood  motionless  and  aghast,  the  pale  statue  of 
Surprise,  as  if  she  neither  durst  nor  could  believe  the  evidence 
of  her  eyes.  Well,  indeed,  might  she  have  doubted  them,  for 
n the  pale  countenance  of  Lord  Mortimer  scarce  a vestige  of 
his  former  self  (except  in  the  benignancy  of  his  looks)  remained. 
His  faded  complexion,  the  disorder  of  his  hair,  his  mourning 
habit,  all  heightened  the  sad  expression  of  his  features — an  ex- 
pression which  declared  that  he  and  happiness  were  never  so 
disunited  as  at  the  present  moment.  The  first  violence  of 
Amanda’s  feelings  in  a little  time  abated,  she  somewhat  re- 
covered the  use  of  her  faculties,  and  hastily  snatching  up  her 
drawings,  moved  with  weak  and  trembling  steps  to  the  door. 
She  had  nearly  reached  it,  when  the  soft,  the  tremulous  voice 
of  Lord  Mortimer  arrested  her  course.  “ You  go,  then,  Miss 
Fitzalan,”  cried  he,  ‘‘without  one  adieu.  You  go,  and  we 
never  more  shall  meet.”  The  agonizing  manner  in  which  these 
words  were  pronounced,  struck  a death-like  chill  upon  the 
heart  of  Amanda.  She  stopped,  and  turned  around  involun- 
tarily, as  if  to  receive  that  last,  that  sad  adieu,  which  she  was 
half  reproached  for  avoiding.  Lord  Mortimer  approached  her, 
he  attempted  to  speak,  but  his  voice  was  inarticulate ; a gust 
of  sorrow  burst  from  his  eyes,  and  he  hastily  covered  his  face 
with  a handkerchief,  and  walked  to  a window, 

Amanda,  unutterably  affected,  was  unable  to  stand ; she 
sunk  upon  a chair,  and  watched  with  a bursting  heart  the  emo- 
tions of  Lord  Mortimer.  Oh ! with  what  difficulty  at  this 
moment  did  she  confine  herself  within  the  cold,  the  rigid  rules  of 
propriety ; with  what  difficulty  did  she  prevent  herself  from 
flying  to  Lord  Mortimer ; from  mingling  tears  with  his,  and 
lamenting  the  cruel  destiny  which  had  disunited  them  forever. 
Lord  Mortimer  in  a few  minutes  was  sufficiently  recovered 
again  to  approach  her.  “ I have  long  wished  for  an  opportu- 
nity of  seeing  you,”  said  he,  “ but  I had  not  courage  to  desire 
an  interview.  How  little  did  I imagine  this  morning,  when, 
like  a sad  exile,  I came  to  take  a last  farewell  of  a favorite 
residence,  that  I should  behold  you  ! Fate,  in  granting  this 
interview,  has  for  once  befriended  me.  To  express  my  horror 
— my  remorse — my  anguish — not  only  for  the  error  a combina- 
tion of  events  led  me  into  concerning  you,  but  for  the  conduct 
that  error  influenced  me  to  adopt,  will,  I think,  a little  lighten 
my  heart.  To  receive  your  pardon  will  be  a sweet,  a sad  con- 
solation ; yet,”  continued  he,  after  a moment’s  pause,  “ why  do 
I say  it  will  be  a consolation  ? Alas  ! the  sweetness  that  may 
l^ad  you  to  accord  it  will  OQly  heighten  my  wretchedness  at 


S34 


THE  CHILDREN  OE  THE  ABBEY. 


our  eternal  separation/’  Here  he  paused.  Amanda  was  un 
able  to  speak.  His  words  seemed  to  imply  he  was  acquainted 
with  the  injuries  she  had  sustained  through  his  father’s  means^ 
and  she  waited  in  trembling  expectation  for  an  explanation  of 

them.  “ The  purity  of  your  character,”  exclaimed  Lord  Mor- 
timer, “ was  at  length  fully  revealed  to  me.  Good  Heaven  ! 
under  what  afflicting  circumstances  ? by  that  being,  to  whom 
you  so  generously  made  a sacrifice  of  what  then  you  might 
have  considered  your  happiness.”  Did  Lord  Cherbury, 

then, ”  said  Amanda,  with  inexpressible  eagerness,  “ did  he 

then,  at  last,  justify  me  ? ” ‘‘Yes,”  cried  Lord  Mortimer,  “he 

proved  you  were  indeed  the  most  excelleiTt,  the  most  injured 
of  human  beings  j that  you  were  all  which  my  fond  heart  had 
once  believed  you  to  be ; but  oh  ! what  were  the  dreadful 
emotions  of  that  heart  to  know  his  justification  came  too  late 
to  restore  its  peace.  Once  there  was  a happy  period,  when, 
after  a similar  error  being  removed,  I had  hoped,  by  a life  for- 
ever devoted  to  you,  to  have  made  some  reparation,  some  atone- 
ment, for  my  involuntary  injustice ; but  alas  ! no  reparation, 
no  atonement  can  now  be  made.” 

Amanda  wept.  She  raised  her  streaming  eyes  to  heaven, 
and  again  cast  them  to  the  earth. 

“ You  weep,”  cried  Lord  Mortimer,  in  a tone  expressive  of 
surprise,  after  surveying  her  some  minutes  in  silence.  “ My 
love,  my  Amanda,”  continued  he,  suddenly  seizing  her  hand, 
while  he  surveyed  her  with  a most  rapturous  fondness,  a crim- 
son glow  mantling  his  cheek,  and  a beam  of  wonted  brilliancy 
darting  from  his  eye,  “ What  am  I to  imagine  from  those  tears  ? 
are  you,  then,  indeed,  unaltered  ? ” 

Amanda  started.  She  feared  the  emotions  she  betrayed 
had  convinced  Lord  Mortimer  of  the  continuance,  the  unabated 
strength  of  her  affection.  She  felt  shocked  at  her  imprudence, 
which  had  alone,  she  was  convinced,  tempted  Lord  Mortimer 
to  address  her  in  such  a manner.  “ I know  not,  my  lord,” 
cried  she,  “ in  what  sense  you  ask  whether  I am  unchanged  ; 
but  of  this  be  assured,  a total  alteration  must  have  taken  place 
in  my  sentiments,  if  I could  remain  a moment  longer  with  a 
person  who  seems  at  once  forgetful  of  what  is  due  to  his  own 
situation  and  mine.”  “Go,  then,  madam,”  exclaimed  Lord 
Mortimer,  in  an  accent  ot  displeasure,  “ and  pardon  my  having 
thus  detained  you — pardon  my  involuntary  offence — excuse  my 
having  disturbed  your  retirement,  and  obtruded  my  sorrows  on 
you.” 

Amanda  had  now  reached  the  door.  Her  heart  recoiled  at 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


S3S 


the  idea  of  parting  in  such  a manner  from  Lord  Mortimer,  but 
prudence  bade  her  hasten  as  fast  as  possible  from  him.  Yet 
slow  and  lingering  she  pursued  her  way.  Ere  she  had  gone 
many  yards  she  was  overtaken  by  Lord  Mortimer,  His  pride 
was  inferior  to  his  tenderness,  which  drove  him  to  despair  at 
the  idea  of  parting  in  displeasure  from  her.  “ Oh  ! my 
Amanda,’’  cried  he,  seizing  her  hand,  and  almost  breathless 
with  emotion,  ‘‘  add  not,  by  your  anger,  to  the  bitterness  of  this 
sad  hour.  Since  we  must  part,  oh ! let  us  part  in  amity,  as 
friends  that  regard  each  other.  You  have  not  yet  (if,  indeed, 
it  is  possible  for  you  to  do  so)  pronounced  your  forgiveness  of 
the  persecutions  you  underwent  on  my  account.  You  have  not 
granted  your  pardon  for  the  harshness,  the  cruelty  with  which 
a dreadful  error  tempted  me  to  treat  you.”  “ Oh  ! my  lord,” 
said  Amanda,  again  yielding  to  the  softness  of  her  soul,  while 
tears  trickled  down  her  cheeks,  why  torture  me  by  speaking  in 
this  manner How  can  I pronounce  forgiveness  when  I never 
was  offended  ? When  wretched  and  deserted,  I appeared  to 
stand  upon  the  great  theatre  of  life,  without  one  hand  to  offer 
me  assistance,  your  ready  friendship  came  to  my  relief,  and 
poured  the  balm  of  comfort  over  the  sorrows  of  my  heart ! 
when  deprived  by  deceit  and  cruelty  of  your  good  opinion, 
even  then  your  attention  and  solicitude  pursued  my  wandering 
footsteps,  and  strove  to  make  a path  of  comfort  for  me  to  take  ! 
these,  these  are  the  obligations  that  never  can  be  forgotten, 

that  demand,  that  possess,  my  eternal  gratitude,  my .”  A 

warmer  expression  rose  to  her  lips,  but  was  again  buried  in 
her  heart.  She  sighed,  and  after  a pause  of  a minute,  thus 
went  on  : — For  your  happiness,  my  warmest,  purest  prayers 
are  daily  offered  up  ; oh  ! may  it  yet  be  equal  to  your  virtues  ; 
greater  I cannot  wish  it.” 

Lord  Mortimer  groaned  in  the  excruciating  agony  of  his 
soul.  ‘‘Oh!  Amanda,”  he  said,  “where,  where  can  I receive 
consolation  for  your  loss  ? Never,  never  in  the  world  ! ” He 
took  her  hands  within  his,  he  raised  them  to  Heaven,  as  if 
supplicating  its  choicest  blessings  on  her  head.  “ For  my  hap- 
piness you  pray  ; ah  I my  love,  how  unavailing  is  the  prayer  1 ” 

“ Amanda  now  saw  more  than  ever  the  necessity  of  hasten- 
ing away.  She  gently  withdrew  her  hands,  and  hurried  on  as 
fast  as  her  trembling  limbs  could  carry  her.  Still  Lord 
Mortimer  attended  hen  “Yet,  Amanda,”  cried  he,  “a  little 
moment.  Tell  me,”  he  continued,  again  seizing  her  hand,  “ do 
not  these  shades  remind  you  of  departed  hours  ? Oh  I what 
blissful  ones  have  we^not  passed  beneath  their  foliage,  that 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


536 

foliage  which  I shall  never  more  behold  expanding  to  the  breath 
of  spring/’ 

Amanda  trembled.  This  involuntary  but  sad  declaration 
of  the  loss  of  a seat  so  valued  by  him,  overpowered  her.  Her 
respiration  grew  faint,  she  could  not  support  herself,  and  made 
a motion  to  sit  down  upon  the  grass,  but  Lord  Mortimer  eagerly 
caught  her  to  his  bosom.  She  had  not  strength  to  resist  the 
effort,  and  her  head  reclined  upon  his  shoulder.  But  who  can 
speak  her  feelings  as  she  felt  the  beating  heart  of  Mortimer, 
which,  from  its  violent  palpitations,  seemed  as  if  it  would  burst 
his  bosom  to  find  a passage  to  her  feet.  In  a few  minutes  she 
was  a little  recovered,  and,  sensible  of  the  impropriety  of  her 
situation,  was  now  resolutely  determined  to  quit  Lord  Morti- 
mer. We  must  part,  my  lord,”  cried  she,  disengaging  herself 
from  his  arms,  notwithstanding  a gentle  effort  he  made  to  re- 
tain her.  ‘^We  must  part,  my  lord,”  she  repeated,  and  part 
forever.”  ‘‘  Tell  me,  then,”  he  exclaimed,  still  impeding  her 
course,  tell  me  whether  I may  hope  to  live  in  your  remem- 
brance ; whether  I may  hope  not  to  be  obliterated  from  your 
memory  by  the  happiness  which  will  shortly  surround  you  ? 
Promise  I shall  at  times  be  thought  of  with  your  wonted, 
though,  alas ! unavailing  wishes  for  my  happiness,  and  the 
promise  will,  perhaps,  afford  me  consolation  in  the  solitary 
exile  I have  doomed  myself  to.”  “ Oh  ! my  lord,”  said  Amanda, 
unable  to  repress  her  feelings,  “ why  do  I hear  you  speak  in 
this  manner  ? In  mentioning  exile,  do  you  not  declare  your  in- 
tentions of  leaving  unfulfilled  the  claims  which  situation,  family, 
and  society  have  upon  you  Oh  ! my  lord,  you  shock — shall 
I say  more — you  disappoint  me  ! Yes,  I repeat  it,  disappoint 
the  idea  I had  formed  of  the  virtue  and  fortitude  of  him,  who, 
as  a friend,  I shall  ever  regard.  To  yield  thus  to  sorrow,  to 
neglect  the  incumbent  duties  of  life,  to  abandon  a woman  to 
whom  so  lately  you  plighted  your  solemn  vows  of  love  and  pro- 
tection. Oh  ! my  lord,  what  will  her  friends,  what  will  Lady 
Euphrasia  herself  say  to  such  cruel,  such  unjustifiable  conduct  ?” 
“ Lady  Euphrasia  ! ” repeated  Lord  Mortimer,  recoiling  a few 
paces.  “ Lady  Euphrasia  ! ” he  again  exclaimed,  in  tremulous 
accents,  regarding  Amanda  with  an  expression  of  mingled  horror 
and  wildness.  “ Gracious  Heaven  ! is  it,  can  it  be  possible 
you  are  ignorant  of  the  circumstances  which  lately  happened  ? 
Yes,  your  words,  your  looks,  declare  you  are  so.” 

It  was  now  Amanda’s  turn  to  repeat  his  words.  She  de- 
manded, with  a wildness  of  countenance  equal  to  that  he  just 
displayed,  what  were  the  circumstances  he  alluded  to? 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


S37 


First  tell  me/’  cried  he,  ‘‘  was  the  alteration  in  your  man- 
ner produced  by  your  supposing  me  the  husband  of  Lady  Eu- 
phrasia ? ’’  “ Supposing  you  her  husband  ? ’’  repeated  Amanda, 

unable  to  answer  his  question  in  a moment  of  such  torturing 
suspense.  ‘‘And  are  you  not  so?”  “No,”  replied  Lord 
Mortimer ; “ I never  had  the  misfortune  to  offer  vows  which 
my  heart  could  not  ratify.  Lady  Euphrasia  made  another 
choice.  She  was  3^our  enemy ; but  I know  your  gentle  spirit 
will  mourn  her  sad  and  sudden  fate.”  He  ceased,  for  Amanda 
had  no  longer  power  to  listen.  She  sunk,  beneath  surprise 
and  joy,  into  the  expanded  arms  of  her  beloved  Mortimer.  It 
is  ye  alone,  who,  like  her,  have  stood  upon  the  very  brink  of 
despair — who,  like  her,  have  been  restored,  unexpectedly  re- 
stored to  hope,  to  happiness,  that  can  form  any  judgment  of 
her  feelings  at  the  present  moment.  At  the  moment  when 
recovering  from  her  insensibility,  the  soft  accent  of  Lord  Mor- 
timer saluted  her  ear,  and  made  her  heart,  without  one  censure 
from  propriety,  respond  to  rapture,  as  he  held  her  to  his  bosom. 
As  he  gazed  on  her  with  tears  of  impassioned  tenderness,  he 
repeated  his  question,  whether  the  alteration  in  her  manner 
was  produced  alone  by  the  supposition  of  his  marriage ; but 
he  repeated  it  with  a sweet,  a happy  consciousness  of  having 
it  answered  according  to  his  wishes. 

“ These  tears,  these  emotions,  oh  ! Mortimer,  what  do  they 
declare  ? ” exclaimed  Amanda.  “ Ah  ! do  they  not  say  my 
heart  never  knew  a diminution  of  tenderness,  that  it  never 
could  have  forgotten  you  ? Yes,”  she  continued,  raising  her 
eyes,  streaming  with  tears  of  rapture,  to  heaven,  “ I am  now 
recompensed  for  all  my  sufferings.  Yes,  in  this  blissful  mo- 
ment, I meet  a full  reward  for  them.”  Lord  Mortimer  now 
led  her  back  to  the  library,  to  give  an  explanation  of  the  events 
which  had  produced  so  great  a reverse  of  situation  ; but  it  was 
long  ere  he  could  sufficiently  compose  himself  to  commence 
his  narrative.  Alternately  he  fell  at  the  feet  of  Amanda,  alter- 
nately he  folded  her  to  his  bosom,  and  asked  his  heart  if  its 
present  happiness  was  real.  A thousand  times  he  questioned 
her  whether  she  was  indeed  unaltered — as  often  implored  her 
forgiveness  for  one  moment  doubting  her  constancy.  Amanda 
exerted  her  spirits  to  calm  her  own  agitation,  that  she  might  be 
enabled  to  soothe  him  into  tranquillity.  At  length  she  suc- 
ceeded, and  he  terminated  her  anxious  impatience  by  giving 
her  the  promised  relation. 


538  THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


CHAPTER 


By  suffering  well,  our  torture  we  subdue, 

Fly  when  she  frowns,  and  when  she  calls  pursue/’ 

Overwhelmed  with  grief  and  disappointment  at  the  sup- 
posed perfidy  of  Amanda,  Lord  Mortimer  had  returned  to 
England,  acquainting  Lord  Cherbury  and  Lady  Martha  of  the 
unhappy  cause  of  his  returning  alone  \ entreating  them,  in 
pity  to  his  wounded  feelings,  never  to  mention  the  distressing 
subject  before  him.  His  dejection  was  unconquerable ; all  his 
schemes  of  felicity  were  overthrown,  and  the  destruction  of 
his  hopes  was  the  destruction  of  his  peace.  It  was  not  in 
these  first  transports  of  bitter  sorrow  that  Lord  Cherbury  ven- 
tured to  speak  his  wishes  to  his  son.  He  waited  till,  by  slow 
degrees,  he  saw  a greater  degree  of  composure  in  his  manner, 
though  it  was  a composure  attended  with  no  abatement  of 
melancholy.  At  first  he  only  hinted  those  wishes — hints,  how- 
ever, which  Lord  Mortimer  appeared  designedly  insensible  of. 
At  last  the  earl  spoke  plainer.  He  mentioned  his  deep  regret 
at  beholding  a son,  whom  he  had  ever  considered  the  pride  of 
his  house,  and  the  solace  of  his  days,  wasting  his  youth  in 
wretchedness,  for  an  ungrateful  woman,  who  had  long  triumphed 
m the  infatuation  which  bound  him  to  her.  It  filled  his  soul 
with  anguish,’’  he  said,  to  behold  him  lost  to  himself,  his 
family,  and  the  world,  thus  disappointing  all  the  hopes  and  ex- 
pectations which  the  fair  promise  of  his  early  youth  had  given 
rise  to  in  the  bosom  of  his  friends  concerning  the  meridian  of 
his  day.” 

Lord  Mortimer  was  unutterably  affected  by  v/hat  his  father 
said.  The  earl  beheld  his  emotions,  and  blessed  it  as  a happy 
omen.  His  pride,  as  well  as  sensibility,  he  continued,  were 
deeply  wounded  at  the  idea  of  having  Lord  Mortimer  still 
considered  the  slave  of  a passion  which  had  met  so  base  a 
return.  Oh  1 let  not  the  world,”  added  he,  with  increasing 
energy,  triumph  in  your  weakness  ; Xxy  to  shake  it  off,  ere  the 
finger  of  scorn  and  ridicule  is  pointed  at  you  as  the  dupe  of  a 
deceitful  woman’s  art.” 

Lord  Mortimer  was  inexpressibly  shocked.  His  pride  had 
frequently  represented  as  weakness  the  regret  he  felt  for 
Amanda ; and  the  earl  now  stimulating  that  pride^  he  felt  at 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


S39 


the  moment  as  if  he  could  make  any  sacrifice  which  should 
prove  his  having  triumphed  over  his  unfortunate  attachment 
But  when  his  father  called  on  him  to  make  such  a sacrifice,  by 
uniting  himself  to  Lady  Euphrasia,  he  shrunk  back,  and  ac- 
knowledged he  could  not  give  so  fatal  a proof  of  fortitude. 
He  declared  his  total  repugnance  at  present  to  any  alliance. 
Time,  and  the  efforts  of  reason,  he  trusted,  would  subdue  his 
ill-placed  attachment,  and  enable  him  to  comply  with  the  wishes 
of  his  friends. 

Lord  Cherbury  would  not,  could  not  drop  the  subject  next 
his  heart — a subject  so  important,  so  infinitely  interesting  to 
him.  He  exerted  all  his  eloquence,  he  entreated,  he  implored 
his  son  not  forever  to  disappoint  his  wishes.  He  mentioned 
the  compliance  he  had  so  recently  shown  to  his,  though  against 
his  better  judgment,  in  the  useless  consent  he  had  given  to  his 
marriage  with  Miss  Fitzalan. 

Lord  Mortimer,  persecuted  by  his  arguments,  at  length 
declared  that,  was  the  object  he  pointed  out  for  his  alliance 
any  other  than  Lady  Euphrasia  Sutherland,  he  would  not 
perhaps  be  so  reluctant  to  comply  with  his  wishes ; but  she 
was  a woman  he  could  never  esteem,  and  must  consequently 
forever  refuse.  She  had  given  such  sjfecimens  of  cruelty  and 
deceit,  in  the  schemes  she  had  entered  into  with  the  mar- 
chioness against  (he  blushed,  he  faltered,  as  he  pronounced 
her  name)  Miss  Fitzalan,  that  his  heart  felt  unutterable  dislike 
to  her. 

The  earl  was  prepared  for  this ; he  had  the  barbarity  to 
declare,  in  the  most  unhesitating  manner,  he  was  sorry  to 
find  him  still  blinded  by  the  art  of  that  wretched  girl.  He 
bade  him  reflect  on  her  conduct,  and  then  consider  whether 
any  credence  was  to  be  given  to  her  declaration  of  Belgrave’s 
being  admitted  to  the  house  without  her  knowledge. 

Lord  Mortimer  was  startled.  Her  conduct,  indeed,  as  his 
father  said,  might  well  make  him  doubt  her  veracity.  But  still 
the  evidence  of  the  servants  ; they  acknowledged  having  been 
instruments  in  forwarding  the  scheme  which  she  said  was  laid 
against  her.  He  mentioned  this  circumstance.  The  earl  was 
also  prepared  for  it ; the  servants,  he  declared,  had  been  ex- 
amined in  his  presence,  when  with  shame  and  contrition  they 
confessed,  that  seeing  the  strong  anxiety  of  Lord  Mortimer 
for  the  restoration  of  Miss  Fitzalan’s  fame,  and  tempted  by 
the  large  bribes  he  offered,  if  they  could  or  would  say  anything 
in  her  justification,  they  had  at  last  made  the  allegation  so 
pleasing  to  him. 


540 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


Lord  Mortimer  sighed  deeply.  every  side/’  cried 

he,  “ I find  I have  been  the  dupe  of  art ; but  it  was  only  the 
deceit  of  one  could  agonize  my  soul.’’  Still,  however,  he 
was  inexorable  to  all  his  father  could  say  relative  to  Lady 
Euphrasia. 

Lady  Martha  was  at  last  called  in  as  an  auxiliary ; she  was 
now  as  strenuous  for  the  connection  as  ever  Lord  Cherburj 
had  been.  A longer  indulgence  of  Lord  Mortimer’s  grief,  she 
feared,  would  completely  undermine  his  health,  and  eithei 
render  him  a burden  to  himself,  or  precipitate  him  to  an  early 
grave.  Whilst  he  continued  single,  she  knew  he  would  not 
consider  any  vigorous  exertions  for  overcoming  that  grief 
necessary ; but  if  once  united,  she  was  convinced,  from  the 
rectitude  and  sensibility  of  his  disposition,  he  would  struggle 
against  his  feelings,  in  order  to  fulfil  the  incumbent  duties  he 
had  imposed  upon  himself.  Thus  did  she  deem  a union  req- 
uisite to  rouse  him  to  exertion  ; to  restore  his  peace,  and  in 
all  probability  to  save  his  life.  She  joined  in  her  brother’s 
arguments  and  entreaties,  with  tears  she  joined  in  them,  and 
besought  Mortimer  to  accede  to  their  wishes.  She  called  him 
the  last  hope  of  their  house.  He  had  long,  she  said,  been  the 
pride,  the  delight  of  tffeir  days ; their  comfort,  their  existence 
were  interwoven  in  his ; if  he  sunk,  they  sunk  with  him. 

The  yielding  soul  of  Mortimer  could  not  resist  such  tender- 
ness, and  he  gave  a promise  of  acting  as  they  wished.  He 
imagined  he  could  not  be  more  wretched  ; but  scarcely  had  this 
promise  passed  his  lips,  ere  he  felt  an  augmentation  of  misery. 
To  enter  into  new  engagements,  to  resign  the  sv^eet  though 
melancholy  privilege  of  indulging  his  feelings,  to  fetter  at  once 
both  soul  and  body,  were  ideas  that  filled  him  with  unutterable 
anguish.  A thousand  times  was  he  on  the  point  of  retracting 
his  regretted  and  reluctant  promise,  had  not  honor  interposed, 
and  showed  the  inability  of  doing  so,  without  an  infringement 
on  its  principles.  Thus  entangled,  Mortimer  endeavored  to 
collect  his  scattered  thoughts,  and  in  order  to  try  and  gain  some 
composure,  he  altered  his  former  plan  of  acting,  and  mingled 
as  much  as  possible  in  society.  He  strove  to  fly  from  himself, 
that  by  so  doing  he  might  fly  from  the  corrosive  remembrances 
which  embittered  his  life.  But  who  shall  paint  his  agonies  at 
the  unexpected  sight  of  Amanda  at  the  Macqueens  ? The 
exertions  he  had  for  some  time  before  compelled  hims.elf  to 
make,  had  a little  abated  the  pain  of  his  feelings  ; but  that  pain 
returned  with  redoubled  violence  at  her  presence,  and  every  idea 
of  pr^sent  composure/e;"  ::f  future  tranquillity,  vanished. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


S4t 

i 

felt  with  regret,  anguish,  that  she  was  as  dear  as  ever  to  his 
soul,  and  his  destined  union  became  more  hateful  than  ever  to 
him.  He  tried,  by  recollecting  her  conduct,  to  awaken  his 
resentment ; but,  alas  ! softness,  in  spite  of  all  his  efforts  to  the 
contrary,  was  the  predominant  feeling  of  his  soul.  Her  pallid 
cheek,  her  deep  dejection,  seemed  to  say  she  was  the  child  of 
sorrow  and  repentance.  To  soothe  that  sorrow,  to  strengthen 
that  repentance,  oh ! how  delightful  unto  him  ; but  either  he 
durst  not  do,  situated  as  he  then  was. 

With  the  utmost  difficulty  Lady  Martha  Dormer  prevailed 
on  him  to  be  present  when  she  demanded  the  picture  from 
Amanda.  That  scene  has  already  been  described  ; also  his 
parting  one  with  her ; but  to  describe  the  anguish  he  endured 
after  this  period  is  impossible.  He  beheld  Lady  Euphrasia 
with  a degree  of  horror  ; his  faltering  voice  refused  even  to  pay 
her  the  accustomed  compliments  of  meeting ; he  loathed  the 
society  he  met  at  the  castle,  and,  regardless  of  what  would  be 
thought  of  him,  regardless  of  health,  or  the  bleakness  of  the 
season,  wandered  for  hours  together  in  the  most  unfrequented 
parts  of  the  domain,  the  veriest  son  of  wretchedness  and 
despair. 

The  day,  the  dreaded  day,  at  length  arrived  which  was  to  com- 
plete his  misery.  The  company  were  all  assembled  in  the  great 
hall  of  the  castle,  from  whence  they  were  to  proceed  to  the 
chapel,  and  every  moment  expected  the  appearance  of  the  bride. 
The  marquis,  surprised  at  her  long  delay,  sent  a messenger  to 
request  her  immediate  presence,  who  returned  in  a few  minutes 
with  a letter,  which  he  presented  to  the  marquis,  who  broke  the 
seal  in  visible  trepidation,  and  found  it  from  Lady  Euphrasia. 

She  had  taken  a step,  she  said,  which  she  must  depend  on 
the  kind  indulgence  of  her  parents  to  excuse  ; a step  which 
nothing  but  a firm  conviction  that  happiness  could  not  be 
experienced  in  a union  with  Lord  Mortimer,  should  have 
tempted  her  to.  His  uniform  indifference  had  at  last  convinced 
her  that  motives  of  the  most  interested  nature  influenced  his 
addresses  to  her  ; and  if  her  parents  inquired  into  his,  or,  at 
least.  Lord  Cherbury^s  conduct,  they  would  find  her  assertion 
true,  and  would,  consequently,  she  trusted,  excuse  her  for  not 
submitting  to  be  sacrificed  at  the  shrine  of  interest.  In  select- 
ing Mr.  Ereelove  for  her  choice,  she  had  selected  a man  whose 
addresses  were  not  prompted  by  selfish  views,  but  by  a sincere 
affection,  which  he  would  openly  have  avowed,  had  he  not  been 
assured,  in  the  present  situation  of  affairs,  it  would  have  met  with 
opposition.  To  avoid,  therefore,  a positive  act  of  disobedience, 


542 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


she  had  consented  to  a private  union.  To  Lord  Mortimer  and 
Lord  Cherbury,  she  said,  she  deemed  no  apology  necessary 
for  her  conduct,  as  their  hearts,  at  least  Lord  Cherbury’s,  would 
at  once  exculpate  her,  from  his  own  consciousness  of  not 
having  acted  either  generously  or  honorably  to  her. 

The  violent  transports  of  passion  the  marquis  experienced 
are  not  to  be  described.  The  marchioness  hastily  perused  the 
letter,  and  her  feelings  were  not  inferior  in  violence  to  his.  Its 
contents  were  soon  known,  and  amazement  sat  on  every  coun- 
tenance. But,  oh  1 what  joy  did  they  inspire  in  the  soul  of 
Lord  Mortimer ; not  a respite,  or  rather  a full  pardon  to  the 
condemned  wretch,  at  the  very  moment  when  preparing  foi 
death,  could  have  yielded  more  exquisite  delight ; but  to  Lord 
Cherbury,  what  a disappointment ! It  was,  indeed,  a death 
stroke  to  his  hopes.  The  hints  in  Lady  Euphrasia’s  letter  con- 
cerning him  plainly  declared  her  knowledge  of  his  conduct ; he 
foresaw  an  immediate  demand  from  Freelove ; foresaw  the 
disgrace  he  should  experience  when  his  inability  to  discharge 
that  demand  was  known.  His  soul  was  shaken  in  its  inmost 
recesses,  and  the  excruciating  anguish  of  his  feelings  was  indeed 
as  severe  a punishment  as  he  could  suffer.  Pale,  speechless, 
aghast,  the  most  horrid  ideas  took  possession  of  his  mind,  yet 
he  sought  not  to  repel  them,  for  anything  was  preferable  to  the 
shame  he  saw  awaiting  him. 

Lord  Mortimer’s  indignation  was  excited  by  the  aspersions 
cast  upon  his  father,  aspersions  he  imputed  entirely  to  the 
malice  of  Lady  Euphrasia,  and  which,  from  the  character  of 
Lord  Cherbury,  he  deemed  it  unnecessary  to  attempt  refuting. 
But  alas  ! what  a shock  did  his  noble,  his  unsuspicious  nature 
receive,  when,  in  a short  time  after  the  perusal  of  her  letter, 
one  from  Freelove  was  brought  him,  which  fully  proved  the 
trath  of  her  assertions.  Freelove,  in  his  little,  trifling  manner, 
expressed  his  hopes  that  there  would  be  no  difference  between 
his  lordship  and  him,  for  whom  he  expressed  the  most  entire 
friendship,  on  account  of  the  fair  lady  who  had  honored  him 
with  her  regard  ; declared  her  partiality  was  quite  irresistible  ; 
and,  moreover,  that  in  love,  as  in  war,  every  advantage  was 
allowable  ; begged  to  trouble  his  lordship  with  his  compliments 
to  Lord  Cherbury,  and  a request  that  everything  might  be 
prepared  to  settle  matters  between  them,  on  his  return  from  his 
matrimonial  expedition.  An  immediate  compliance  with  this 
request,  he  was  convinced,  could  not  be  in  the  least  distressing ; 
and  it  was  absolutely  essential  to  him,  from  the  eclat  with  which 
be  designed  Lady  Euphrasia  Freelove  should  make  her  bridal 


TliE  CHILDREN'  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


S43 


entry  into  public.  As  to  the  report,  he  said,  which  he  had 
heard  relative  to  Lord  Cherbury’s  losing  the  fortune  which  was 
intrusted  to  his  care  for  him  at  the  gaming-table,  he  quite 
disbelieved  it. 

The  most  distressing,  the  most  mortifying  sensations  took 
possession  of  Lord  Mortimer  at  this  part  of  the  letter.  It 
explained  the  reasons  of  Lord  Cherbury's  strong  anxiety  for 
an  alliance  with  the  Roslin  family,  which  Lord  Mortimer, 
indeed,  had  often  wondered  at,  and  he  at  once  pitied,  con- 
demned, and  blushed  for  him.  He  stole  a glance  at  his  father, 
and  his  deep,  despairing  look  filled  him  with  horror.  He 
resolved,  the  first  opportunity,  to  declare  his  knowledge  of 
the  fatal  secret  which  oppressed  him,  and  his  resolution  of 
making  any  sacrifice  which  could  possibly  remove  or  lessen  his 
inquietude. 

Lord  Cherbury  was  anxious  to  fly  from  the  now  hated 
castle,  ere  further  confusion  overtook  him.  He  mentioned  his 
intention  of  immediately  departing — -an  intention  opposed  by 
the  marquis,  but  in  which  he  was  steady,  and  also  supported  by 
his  son. 

Everything  was  ready  for  their  departure,  when  Lord  Cher- 
bury, overwhelmed  by  the  dreadful  agitation  he  experienced,  was 
seized  with  a fit  of  the  most  violent  and  alarming  nature.  He 
was  carried  to  a chamber,  and  recourse  was  obliged  to  be  had 
to  a physician,  ere  the  restoration  of  his  senses  was  effected ; 
but  he  was  then  so  weak  that  the  physician  declared  if  not  kept 
quiet,  a return  of  his  disorder  might  be  expected.  Lord  Mor- 
timer, tenderly  impatient  to  lighten  the  burden  on  his  father’s 
mind,  dismissed  the  attendants  as  soon  as  he  possibly  could, 
and  then,  in  the  most  delicate  terms,  declared  his  knowledge 
of  his  situation. 

Lord  Cherbury  at  this  started  up  in  the  most  violent  par- 
oxysm of  anguish,  and  vowed  he  would  never  survive  the  dis- 
covery of  his  being  a villain.  With  difficulty  could  Lord 
Mortimer  compose  him  ; but  it  was  long  ere  he  could  prevail 
on  him  to  hear  what  he  wished  to  say. 

Few  there  were,  he  said,  who  at  some  period  of  their  lives, 
he  believed,  were  not  led  into  actions  which,  upon  reflection, 
they  had  reason  to  regret.  He  thought  not,  he  meant  not,  to 
speak  slightly  of  human  nature,  he  only  wished  to  prove  that, 
liable  as  we  all  are  to  frailty — a frailty  intended  no  doubt  to 
check  the  arrogance  of  pride  and  presumption,  we  should  not 
suffer  the  remembrance  of  error,  when  once  sincerely  repented 
of,  to  plunge  us  into  despair,  particularly  when,  as  far  as  in  oui 


544 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


power,  we  meant  to  atone  for  it.  Thus  did  Lord  Mortimer 
attempt  to  calm  the  dreadful  conflicts  of  his  father’s  mind,  who 
still  continued  to  inveigh  against  himself. 

The  sale  of  Tudor  Hall,  Lord  Mortimer  proceeded,  and 
mortgages  upon  Lord  Cherbury’s  estates,  would  enable  his 
father  to  discharge  his  debt  to  Mr.  Freelove.  He  knew,  he 
said,  it  was  tenderness  to  him  which  had  prevented  him  ere 
this  from  adopting  such  a plan  ; but  he  besought  him  to  let  no 
further  consideration  on  his  account  juake  him  delay  fulfilling 
immediately  the  claims  of  honor  and  justice.  He  besought 
him  to  believe  his  tranquillity  was  more  precious  to  him  than 
anything  in  life ; that  the  restoration  of  his  peace  was  far 
more  estimable  to  him  than  the  possession  of  the  most  brih 
liant  fortune — “ a possession  which,”  continued  Lord  Mortimer 
deeply  sighing,  I am  well  convinced  will  not  alone  yield  hap* 
piness.  I have  long,”  said  he,  “ looked  with  an  eye  of  coo! 
indifference  on  the  pomps,  the  pageantries  of  life.  Disappointed 
in  my  tenderest  hopes  and  expectations,  wealth,  merely  on  my 
own  account,  has  been  long  valueless  to  me.  Its  loss,  I make 
no  doubt — nay,  I am  convinced — I shall  have  reason  to  con- 
sider as  a blessing.  It  will  compel  me  to  make  those  exertions 
which  its  possession  would  have  rendered  unnecessary,  and  by 
so  doing,  in  all  probability,  remove  from  my  heart  that  sadness 
which  has  so  long  clung  about  it,  and  .enervated  all  its  powers. 
A profession  lies  open  to  receive  me,  which,  had  I been  per- 
mitted at  a much  earlier  period,  I should  have  embraced  ; for 
a military  life  was  always  my  passion.  At  the  post  of  danger, 
I may  perhaps  have  the  happiness  of  performing  services  for 
my  country,  which,  while  loitering  supinely  in  the  shade  of 
prosperity,  I never  could  have  done.  Thus,  my  dear  father,” 
he  continued,  ‘‘  you  see  how  erroneous  we  are  in  opinions  we 
often  form  of  things,  since  what  we  often  consider  as  the  bit- 
terest evil  leads  to  the  most  supreme  good.  We  will,  as  soon 
as  possible,  hasten  everything  to  be  prepared  for  Freelove,  and 
thus  I make  no  doubt,  disappoint  the  little  malice  of  his  soul. 

My  aunt,  my  sister,  are  unacquainted  with  your  uneasiness, 
nor  shall  an  intimation  of  it  from  me  ever  transpire  to  them. 
Of  fortune,  sufficient  will  remain  to  allow,  though  not  the  splen- 
dors, the  comforts  and  elegancies  of  life.  As  for  me,  the 
deprivation  of  what  is  considered,  and  falsely  termed,  my 
accustomed  indulgences,  will  be  the  most  salutary  and  effica- 
cious thing  that  could  possibly  happen  to  me.  In  short,  I 
believe  that  the  realization  of  my  plan  will  render  me  happy, 
since,  with  truth  I can  assure  you,  its  anticipation  has  already 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


S4i 

given  more  pleasure  to  my  soul  than  I thought  it  would  ever 
have  again  enjoyed.’^ 

Lord  Cherbury,  overcome  by  the  tenderness,  the  virtue  of 
his  son,  by  the  sacrifice  he  so  willingly  offered,  so  strenuously 
insisted  on  making,  of  his  paternal  fortune,  could  not  for  some 
minutes  speak.  At  length  the  struggling  emotions  of  his  soul 
found  utterance. 

“ Oh  ! Virtue,”  he  exclaimed,  while  tears  of  love,  of  grati- 
tude, of  contrition,  flowed  from  his  eyes,  and  fell  upon  the 
hand  of  his  son,  clasped  within  his — “ Oh  ! Virtue,  I cannot 
say,  like  Brutus,  thou  art  but  a shade ; ho,  here,  in  this  invalu- 
able son,  thou  art  personified — this  son,  whom  I so  cruelly 
deceived,  so  bitterly  distressed  ! Oh  ! gracious  powers,  would 
not  that  heroic,  that  heaven-born  disposition,  which  now  leads 
him  to  sign  away  his  paternal  fortune  for  my  sake  have  also 
led  him  to  a still  greater  resignation,  the  sacrifice  of  his 
Amanda,  had  I entrusted  him  with  my  wretched  situation.  Oh  1 
had  I confided  in  him,  what  an  act  of  baseness  should  I have 
avoided  ! What  pangs,  what  tortures,  should  I have  prevented 
his  experiencing  ! But,  to  save  my  own  guilty  confusion,  I 
drew  wretchedness  upon  his  head.  I wrung  every  fibre  of  his 
heart  with  agony,  by  making  him  believe  its  dearest,  its  most 
valuable  object  unworthy  of  its  regards.” 

Mortimer  started  ; he  gasped — he  repeated,  in  faltering 
accents,  these  last  words.  His  soul  seemed  as  if  it  would 
burst  its  mortal  bounds,  and  soar  to  another  region  to  hear  an 
avowal  of  his  Amanda’s  purity. 

‘‘  Oh  ! Mortimer,”  cried  the  earl,  in  the  deep,  desponding 
tone  of  anguish,  how  shall  I dare  to  lift  my  eyes  to  thine  after 
the  avowal  of  the  injustice  I have  done  one  of  the  most  amia- 
ble and  loveliest  of  human  beings  ? ” “ Oh  ! tell  me,”  cried 

Mortimer,  in  breathless,  trembling  agitation,  “ tell  me  if,  indeed, 
she  is  all  my  fond  heart  once  believed  her  to  be  ? In  mercy, 
in  pity,  delay  not  to  inform  me.” 

Slowly,  in  consequence  of  his  weakness,  but  with  all  the 
willingness  of  a contrite  spirit,  anxious  to  do  justice  to  the 
injured,  did  Lord  Cherbury  reveal  all  that  had  passed  between 
him  and  Amanda.  ‘‘Poor  Fitzalan,”  cried  he,  as  he  finished 
his  relation,  “ poor,  unhappy  friend  ! From  thy  cold  grave, 
couldst  thou  have  known  the  transactions  of  this  world,  how 
must  thy  good  and  feeling  spirit  have  reproached  me  for  my 
barbarity  to  thy  orphan  in  robbing  her  of  the  only  stipend  thy 
adverse  fortune  had  power  to  leave  her — a pure  and  spotless 
fame  ? ” 


546 


THE  CHILDREN  OR  THE  ABBEY. 


Lord  Mortimer  groaned  with  anguish.  Every  reproachful 
word  he  had  uttered  to  Amanda  darted  upon  his  remembrance, 
and  were  like  so  many  daggers  to  his  heart.  It  was  his  fathei 
that  oppressed  her.  This  knowledge  aggravated  his  feelings, 
but  stifled  his  reproaches  ; it  was  a father  contrite,  perhaps  at 
that  very  moment  stretched  upon  a death-bed,  therefore  he 
forgave  him.  He  cast  his  eyes  around,  as  if  in  that  moment 
he  had  hoped  to  behold  her,  have  an  opportunity  of  falling 
prostrate  at  her  feet  and  imploring  her  forgiveness.  He  cast 
his  eyes  around,  as  if  imagining  he  should  see  her,  and  be 
allowed  to  fold  her  to  his  beating  heart,  and  ask  her  soft  voice 
to  pronounce  his  pardon. 

“ Oh  ! thou  lovely  mourner,’’  he  exclaimed  to  himself, 
while  a gush  of  sorrow  burst  from  his  eyes.  “ Oh  ! thou  lovely 
mourner,  when  I censured,  reviled,  upbraided  you,  even  at  that 
very  period  your  heart  was  suffering  the  most  excruciating 
anguish.  Yes,  Amanda,  he  who  would  willingly  have  laid  down 
life  to  yield  thee  peace,  even  he  was  led  to  aggravate  thy  woes. 
With  what  gentleness,  what  unexampled  patience  didst  thou 
bear  my  reproaches  ! No  sudden  ray  of  indignation  for  purity 
so  insulted,  innocence  so  arraigned,  flashed  from  thy  eyes ; the 
beams  of  meekness  and  resignation  alone  stole  from  underneath 
their  tearful  lids. 

No  sweet  hope  of  being  able  to  atone,  no  delighful  idea 
of  being  able  to  make  reparation  for  my  injustice,  now  alle- 
viates the  poignancy  of  my  feelings  j since  fate  interposed 
between  us  in  the  hour  of  prosperity,  I cannot,  in  the  bleak 
and  chilling  period  of  adversity,  seek  to  unite  your  destiny 
with  mine.  Now  almost  the  chil(j  of  want  myself,  a soldier 
of  fortune,  obliged  by  the  sword  to  earn  my  bread,  I cannot 
think  of  leading  you  into  difficulties  and  dangers  greater 
than  you  ever  before  experienced.  Oh  ! my  Amanda,  may  the 
calm  shade  of  security  be  forever  thine  ; thy  Mortimer,  thy 
ever-faithful  ever-adoring  Mortimer,  will  not,  from  any  selfish 
consideration,  seek  to  lead  thee  from  it.  If  thy  loss  be  agon- 
izing, oh  ! how  much  more  agonizing  to  possess  but  to  see  thee 
in  danger  or  distress.  I will  go,  then,  into  new  scenes  of  life 
with  only  thy  dear,  thy  sweet,  and  worshipped  idea  to  cheer 
and  support  me — an  idea  I shall  lose  but  with  life,  and  which 
to  know  I may  cherish,  indulge,  adore,  without  a reproach 
from  reason  for  weakness  in  so  doing,  is  a sweet  and  soothing 
consolaticc*’' 

The  indulgence  of  feelings  such  as  his  language  expressed, 
he  was  obliged  to  forego,  in  order  to  fulfil  the  wish  he  teli  ot 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


547 


alleviating  the  situation  of  his  father  ; but  his  attention  was 
unable  to  lighten  the  anguish  which  oppressed  the  mind  of 
Lord  Cherbury ; remorse  for  his  past  conduct,  mortification  at 
being  lessened  in  the  estimation  of  his  son,  sorrow  for  the 
injury  he  was  compelled  to  do  him,  to  be  extricated  from  the 
power  of  Freelove,  all  preyed  upon  his  mind,  and  produced  the 
most  violent  agitations,  and  an  alarming  repetition  of  fits. 

Things  remained  in  this  situation  for  a few  days,  during 
which  time  no  intelligence  had  been  received  of  Euphrasia, 
when  one  morning,  as  Lord  Mortimer  was  sitting  for  a few 
minutes  with  the  marquis  and  marchioness,  a servant  entered 
the  apartment,  and  informed  his  lord  that  a gentleman  had 
just  arrived  at  the  castle,  who  requested  to  be  introduced  to 
his  presence.  The  marquis  and  marchioness  instantly  con- 
cluded this  was  some  person  sent  as  an  intercessor  from  Lady 
Euphrasia,  and  they  instantly  admitted  him,  in  order  to  have 
an  opportunity  of  assuring  her  ladyship,  through  his  means,  it 
must  be  some  time  (if  indeed  at  all)  ere  they  could  possibly 
/orgive  her  disrespect  and  disobedience.  Lord  Mortimer  would 
have  retired,  but  was  requested  to  stay,  and  complied,  prompted 
indeed  by  curiosity  to  hear  what  kind  of  apology  or  message 
Lady  Euphrasia  had  sent.  A man  of  a most  pleasing  appear- 
ance entered,  and  was  received  with  the  most  frigid  polite- 
ness. He  looked  embarrassed,  agitated,  even  distressed.  He 
attempted  several  times  to  speak,  but  the  words  still  died  away 
undistinguished.  At  length  the  marchioness,  yielding  to  the 
natural  impetuosity  of  her  soul,  hastily  desired  he  would  reveal 
what  had  procured  them  the  honor  of  his  visit. 

‘‘  A circumstance  of  the  most  unhappy  nature,  madam,’’  he 
replied  in  a hesitating  voice.  I came  with  the  hope,  the  ex- 
pectation of  being  able  to  break  it  by  degrees,  so  as  not  totally 
to  overpower ; but  I find  myself  unequal  to  the  distressing  task.” 
“ I fancy,  sir,”  cried  the  marchioness,  ‘‘  both  the  marquis  and 
I are  already  aware  of  the  circumstance  you  allude  to.”  Alas  ! 
madam,”  said  the  stranger,  fixing  his  eyes  with  a mournful  ear 
nestness  on  her  face,  “ I cannot  think  so.  If  you  were,  it  would 
not  be  in  human,  in  parent  nature  to  appear  as  you  now  do.” 
He  stopped,  he  turned  pale,  he  trembled,  his  emotions  became 
contagious. 

“ Tell  me,”  said  the  marquis,  in  a voice  scarcely  articulate, 
I beseech  you,  without  delay,  the  meaning  of  your  words.” 

The  stranger  essayed  to  speak,  but  could  not ; words  indeed 
were  scarcely  necessary  to  declare  that  he  had  something  shock- 
ing to  reveal.  His  auditors,  like  old  Northumberland,  might 


54$  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 

have  said,  The  paleness  on  thy  cheek  is  apter  than  thy  tongue 
to  tell  thy  errand/^  Something  dreadful  has  happened  to  my 
child,’’  said  the  marchioness,  forgetting  in  that  agonizing  mo' 
ment  all  displeasure.  Alas ! madam,”  cried  the  stranger, 
while  a trickling  tear  denoted  his  sensibility  for  the  sorrows  he 
was  about  giving  rise  to.  “ Alas  ! madam,  your  fears  are  too 
well  founded  ; to  torture  you  with  longer  suspense  would  be 
barbarity.  Something  dreadful  has  happened,  indeed — Lady 
Euphrasia  in  this  world  will  never  more  be  sensible  of  youf 
kindness.’’  A wild,  a piercing,  agonizing  shriek  burst  from  the 
lips  of  the  marchioness,  as  she  dropped  senseless  from  her  seat. 
The  marquis  was  sinking  from  his,  had  not  Lord  Mortimer,  who 
sat  by  him,  timely  started  up,  and,  though  trembling  himself  with 
horror,  caught  him  in  his  arms.  The  servants  were  summonedj 
the  still  insensible  marchioness  was  carried  to  her  chamber  ; th6i 
wretched  marquis,  reviving  in  a few  minutes — if  that  could  be 
called  reviving,  which  was  only  a keener  perception  of  misery — * 
demanded,  in  a tone  of  anguish,  the  whole  particulars  of  the 
sad  event.  Yet  scarcely  had  the  stranger  begun  to  comply  with 
his  request,  ere,  with  all  the  wild  inconsistency  of  grief,  he  bad^ 
him  forbear,  and,  shuddering,  declared  he  could  not  listen  t(? 
the  dreadful  particulars.  But  it  were  needless,  as  well  as  im 
possible,  to  describe  the  feelings  of  the  wretched  parents,  whn 
in  one  moment  beheld  their  hojDes,  their  wishes,  their  exper'^^, 
tions  finally  destroyed.  Oh  ! what  an  awful  lesson  did  the'- 
culcate  of  the  instability  of  human  happiness,  of  the  insufficiency 
of  rank  or  riches  to  retain  it.  This  was  one  of  the  events  which 
Providence,  in  its  infinite  wisdom,  makes  use  of  to  arrest  the 
thoughtless  in  their  career  of  dissipation,  and  check  the  arro* 
gance  of  pride  and  vanity.  When  we  behold  the  proud,  the 
wealthy,  the  illustrious,  suddenly  surprised  by  calamity,  and  sink- 
ing beneath  its  stroke,  we  naturally  reflect  on  the  frail  tenuie 
of  earthly  possessions,  and,  from  the  reflection,  consider  how 
we  may  best  attain  that  happiness  which  cannot  change.  The 
human  heart  is  in  general  so  formed  as  to  require  something 
. great  and  striking  to  interest  and  affect  it.  Thus  a similar  mis- 
fortune happening  to  a person  in  a conspicuous,  and  to  one  in 
an  obscure  situation,  would  not,  in  all  probability,  equally  affect 
or  call  home  the  wandering  Lioughts  to  sadness  and  reflection. 
The  humble  floweret,  trampled  to  the  dust,  is  passed  with  an 
eye  of  careless  indifference  ; but  the  proud  oak  torn  from  the 
earth,  and  levelled  by  the  storm,  is  viewed  with  wonder  and 
affright.  The  horrors  of  the  blow  which  overwhelmed  the 
marquis  and  marchioness,  were  augmented  by  the  secret  whis^ 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


549 


pers  of  conscience,  that  seemed  to  say  it  was  a blow  of  retribu- 
tion from  a Being  all  righteous  and  all  just,  whose  most  sacred 
laws  they  had  violated,  in  oppressing  the  widow  and  defrauding 
the  orphan.  Oh  ! what  an  augmentation  of  misery  is  it  to  think 
it  merited ! Remorse,  like  the  vengeance  of  Heaven,  seemed 
now  awakened  to  sleep  no  more.  No  longer  could  they  palliate 
their  conduct,  no  longer  avoid  retrospection — a retrospection 
which  heightened  the  gloomy  horrors  of  the  future.  In  Lady 
Euphrasia,  all  the  hopes  and  affections  of  the  marquis  and  mar- 
chioness were  centred.  She  alone  had  ever  made  them  feel 
the  tenderness  of  humanity,  yet  she  was  not  less  the  darling  of 
their  love  than  the  idol  of  their  pride.  In  her  they  beheld  the 
being  who  was  to  support  the  honors  of  their  house,  and  trans- 
mit their  names  to  posterity.  In  her  they  beheld  the  being 
who  gave  them  an  opportunity  of  gratifying  the  malevolent,  as 
well  as  the  tender  and  ambitious  passions  of  their  souls.  The 
next  heir  to  the  marquis’s  title  and  fortune  had  irreconcilably 
disobliged  him.  As  a means,  therefore,  of  disappointing  him, 
if  on  no  other  account.  Lady  Euphrasia  would  have  been  re- 
garded by  them.  Though  she  had  disappointed  and  displeased 
them  by  her  recent  act  of  disobedience,  and  though  they  had 
deemed  it  essential  to  their  consequence  to  display  that  displeas- 
ure, yet  they  secretly  resolved  not  long  to*  withhold  forgiveness 
from  her,  and  also  to  take  immediate  steps  for  ennobling 
Freelove. 

For  Lady  Euphrasia  they  felt  indeed  a tenderness  her  heart 
for  them  was  totally  a stranger  to.  It  seemed,  indeed,  as  if, 
cold  and  indifferent  to  all  mankind,  their  affections  were  stronger 
for  being  confined  in  one  channel.  In  the  step  she  had  taken, 
Lady  Euphrasia  only  considered  the  gratification  of  her  revenge. 
Freelove,  as  the  ward  of  Lord  Cherbury,  in  honor  to  him,  had 
been  invited  to  the  nuptials.  He  accepted  the  invitation,  but, 
instead  of  accompanying,  promised  to  follow  the  bridal  party  to 
the  castle.  A day  or  two  ere  he  intended  setting  out,  by  some 
accidental  chance,  he  got  into  company  with  the  very  person  to 
whom  Lord  Cherbury  had  lost  so  much,  and  on  whose  account 
he  had  committed  an  action  which  had  entailed  the  most  excru- 
ciating remorse  upon  him.  This  person  was  acquainted  with 
the  whole  transaction.  He  had  promised  to  keep  his  knowledge 
a secret,  but  the  promises  of  the  worthless  are  of  Uttle  avail.  A 
slight  expression,  which,  in  a moment  of  anxiety,  had  involun- 
tarily dropped  from  Lord  Cherbur}^,  had  stung  him  to  the  soul, 
because  he  knew  too  well  its  justice,  and  inspired  him  with  the 
most  inveterate  hatred  and  rancorous  desire  of  revenge.  Hb 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


55^ 

unexpectedly  meeting  Freelove  afforded  him  an  opportunity  of 
gratifying  both  these  propensities,  and  he  scrupled  not  to  avail 
himself  of  it.  Freelove  was  astonished,  and,  when  the  first 
violence  of  astonishment  was  over,  delighted. 

To  triumph  over  the  proud  soul  of  Lord  Cherbury  and  his 
son,  was  indeed  an  idea  which  afforded  rapture.  Both  he  had 
ever  disliked,  the  latter  particularly.  He  disliked  him  from  the 
superiority  which  he  saw  in  every  respect  he  possessed  over 
himself,  A stranger  to  noble  emulation,  he  sought  not,  by 
study  or  imitation,  to  aspire  to  any  of  those  graces  or  perfec- 
tions he  beheld  in  Lord  Mortimer.  He  sought  alone  to  depre- 
ciate them,  and,  when  he  found  that  impossible,  beheld  him  with 
greater  envy  and  malignity  than  ever.  To  wound  Lord  Mortimer 
through  the  bosom  of  his  father,  to  overwhelm  him  with  cor,fti- 
sion,  by  publicly  displaying  the  error  of  that  father,  wer^  ici^sas 
of  the  most  exquisite  delight — ideas  which  the  wealth  oT  worlds 
would  scarcely  have  tempted  him  to  forego, — so  sweet  is  anjf 
triumph,  however  accidental  or  imaginary,  over  a noble  object, 
to  an  e-nvious  mind,  which  ever  hates  that  excellence  it  cannot 
reach.  No  fear  of  self-interest  being  injured  checked  his  pleas- 
ure. - The  fortune  of  Lord  Cherbury  he  knew  sufficient  to  an- 
swer for  his  violated  trust.  Thus  had  he  another  source  of 
triumph  m the  prospect  of  having  those  so  long  considered  as 
the  i^roud  rivals  of  his  wealth  and  splendor,  cast  into  the  shade. 
His  pleasure,  however,  from  this  idea,  was  short  lived,  when  he 
reflected  that  Lord  Mortimer’s  union  with  Lady  Euphrasia  would 
totally  exempt  him  from  feeling  any  inconvenience  from  his 
father’s  conduct.  But  could  not  this  union  be  prevented  ? 
Freelove  asked  himself.  He  still  wanted  a short  period  of  be 
ing  of  age,  consequently  had  no  right,  at  present,  to  demand  a 
settlement  of  his  affairs  from  Lord  Cherbury.  He  might,  how- 
ever, privately  inform  Lady  Euphrasia  of  the  affair  so  recently 
communicated  to  him.  No  sooner  did  he  conceive  this  scheme, 
than  he  glowed  with  impatience  to  put  it  into  execution.  He 
hastened  to  the  marquis’s,  whither,  indeed,  the  extravagant  and 
foppish  preparations  he  had  made  for  the  projected  nuptial^ 
had  before  prevented  his  going,  and  took  the  first  opportunity 
which  offered  of  revealing  to  Lady  Euphrasia,  as  if  from  the 
purest  friendship,  the*  conduct  of  Lord  Cherbury,  and  the 
derangement  of  his  affairs. 

Lady  Euphrasia  was  at  once  surprised  and  incensed.  The 
reason  for  a union  between  her  and  his  son  being  so  ardently 
desired  by  Lord  Cherbury,  was  now  fully  explained,  and  she  be- 
held herself  as  an  object  addre^ssed  merely  from  a view  of  re- 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


S?* 

pairing  a ruined  fortune  ; but  this  view  she  resolved  to  disap- 
point. Such  was  the  implacable  nature  of  her  disposition,  that 
had  this  disappointment  occasioned  the  destruction  of  her  own 
peace,  it  would  not  have  made  her  relinquish  it.  But  this  was 
not  the  case.  In  sacrificing  all  ideas  of  a union  with  Lord 
Mortimer  to  her  offended  pride  she  sacrificed  no  wish  or  incli- 
nation of  her  soul.  Lord  Mortimer,  though  the  object  of  her 
admiration,  had  never  been  the  object  of  her  love.  She  was, 
indeed,  incapable  of  feeling  that  passion.  Her  admiration  had, 
however,  long  since  given  place  to  resentment,  at  the  cool 
indifference  with  which  he  regarded  her.  She  would  have 
opposed  a marriage  with  him,  but  for  fear  that  he  might,  thus 
freed,  attach  himself  to  Amanda.  The  moment,  however,  she 
knew  a union  with  her  was  necessary  for  the  establishment  of 
his  fortune,  fear,  with  every  consideration  which  could  oppose 
it,  vanished  before  the  idea  of  disappointing  his  views,  and  re- 
taliating upon  him  that  uneasiness  he  had,  from  wounded  pride, 
made  her  experience  by  his  cold  and  unalterable  behavior 
to  her. 

She  at  first  determined  to  acquaint  the  marquis  of  what  she 
had  heard,  but  a little  reflection  made  her  drop  this  determina- 
tion. He  had  always  professed  a warm  regard  for  Lord  Cher- 
bury,  and  she  feared  that  regard  would  still  lead  him  to  insist 
on  the  nuptials  taking  place.  She  was  not  long  in  concerting 
a scheme  to  render  such  a measure  impracticable,  and  Freelove 
she  resolved  to  make  an  instrument  for  forwarding,  or  rather 
executing  her  revenge.  She  hesitated  not  to  say  she  had  al- 
ways disliked  Lord  Mortimer ; that,  in  short,  there  was  but  one 
being  she  could  ever  think,  ever  hope  to  be  happy  with.  Her 
broken  sentences,  her  looks,  her  affected  confusion,  all  revealed 
to  Freelove  that  he  was  that  object.  The  rapture  this  discovery 
inspired  he  could  not  conceal.  The  flattering  expressions  of 
Lady  Euphrasia  were  repaid  by  the  most  extravagant  compli- 
ments, the  warmest  professions,  the  strongest  assurances  of 
never-dying  love.  This  soon  led  to  what  she  desired,  and,  in 
a short  space,  an  elopement  was  agreed  to,  and  everything 
relative  to  it  settled.  Freelove’s  own  servants  and  equipage 
were  at  the  Castle,  and  consequently  but  little  difficulty  attended 
the  arrangement  of  their  plan.  In  Lady  Euphrasia’s  eyes 
Freelove  had  no  other  value  than  what  he  now  merely  derived 
from  being  an  instrument  in  gratifying  the  haughty  and  revenge- 
ful passions  of  her  nature.  She  regarded  him,  indeed,  with 
sovereign  contempt ; his  fortune,  however,  she  knew  would  give 
him  consequence  in  the  world,  and  she  was  convinced  she 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


SS2 

should  find  him  quite  that  easy,  convenient  husband  which  a 
woman  of  fashion  finds  so  necessary ; in  short,  she  looked  for- 
ward to  being  the  uncontrolled  mistress  of  her  own  actions,  and 
without  a doubt  but  that  she  should  meet  many  objects  as 
deserving  of  her  admiration,  and  infinitely  more  grateful  for  it, 
than  ever  Lord  Mortimer  had  been. 

Flushed  with  such  a pleasing  prospect,  she  quitted  the 
Castle — that  castle  she  was  destined  never  more  to  see.  At 
the  moment,  the  very  moment,  she  smiled  with  joy  and  expec- 
tation, the  shaft,  the  unerring  shaft,  was  raised  against  her 
breast. 

The  marriage  ceremony  over,  they  hastened  to  the  vicinity 
of  the  Castle,  in  order  to  send  an  apologizing  letter,  as  usual 
on  such  occasions.  The  night  was  dark  and  dreary,  the  road 
rugged  and  dangerous ; the  postilions  ventured  to  say  it  would 
be  better  to  halt  for  the  night,  but  this  was  opposed  by  Lady 
Euphrasia.  They  were  within  a few  miles  of  the  destined  ter- 
mination of  their  journey,  and,  pursuant  to  her  commands,  they 
proceeded.  In  a few  minutes  after  this,  the  horses,  startled  by 
a sudden  light  which  gleamed  across  the  path,  began  plunging 
in  the  most  alarming  manner.  A frightful  precipice  lay  on  one 
side,  and  the  horses,  in  spite  of  all  the  efforts  of  the  postilions^ 
continued  to  approach  it.  Freelove,  in  this  dreadful  moment, 
lost  all  consideration  but  for  himself ; he  burst  open  the  chariot 
door,  and  leaped  into  the  road.  His  companion  was  unable  to 
follow  his  example ; she  had  fainted  at  the  first  intimation  of 
danger.  The  postilions  with  difficulty  dismounted.  The  other 
servants  came  to  their  assistance,  and  endeavored  to  restrain 
the  horses  ; every  effort  was  useless,  they  broke  from  their  hold, 
and  plunged  down  the  precipice.  The  servants  had  heard  the 
chariot-door  open  ; they  therefore  concluded,  for  it  was  too  dark 
to  see,  that  both  their  master  and  Lady  Euphrasia  were  safe. 
But  who  can  describe  their  horror,  when  aloud  shriek  from  him 
declared  her  situation  1 Some  of  them  immediately  hastened, 
as  fast  as  their  trembling  limbs  could  carry  them,  to  the  house 
adjoining  the  road,  from  whence  the  fatal  light  had  gleamed 
which  caused  the  sad  catastrophe.  They  revealed  it  in  a few 
words,  and  implored  immediate  assistance.  The  master  of  the 
house  was  a man  of  the  greatest  humanity.  He  was  inex- 
pressibly shocked  at  what  he  had  heard,  and  joined  himself  in 
giving  the  assistance  that  was  desired.  With  lanterns  they 
proceeded  down  a winding  path  cut  in  the  precipice,  and  soon 
discovered  the  objects  of  their  search.  The  horses  were  already 
dead — the  chariot  was  shattered  to  pieces.  They  took  up  some 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


S53 


of  the  fragments,  and  discovered  beneath  them  the  lifeless  body 
of  the  unfortunate  Lady  Euphrasia.  The  stranger  burst  into 
tears  at  the  sight  of  so  much  horror ; and,  in  a voice  scarcely 
audible,  gave  orders  for  her  being  conveyed  to  his  house.  But 
when  a better  light  gave  a more  perfect  view  of  the  mangled 
remains,  all  acknowledged  that,  since  so  fatal*  an  accident  had 
befallen  her.  Heaven  was  merciful  in  taking  a life  whose  con- 
tinuance would  have  made  her  endure  the  most  excruciating 
tortures. 

Freelove  was  now  inquired  for.  He  had  fainted  on  the  road, 
but  in  a few  minutes  after  he  was  brought  in,  recovered  his 
senses,  and  the  first  use  he  made  of  them  was  to  inquire  whether 
he  was  dead  or  alive.  Upon  receiving  the  comfortable  assur- 
ance of  the  latter,  he  congratulated  himself,  in  a manner  so 
warm,  upon  his  escape,  as  plainly  proved  self  was  his  whole 
and  sole  consideration.  No  great  preparations,  on  account  of 
his  feelings,  were  requisite  to  inform  him  of  the  fate  of  Lady 
Euphrasia.  He  shook  his  head  on  hearing  it ; said  it  was  what 
he  already  guessed,  from  the  devilish  plunge  of  the  horses , 
declared  it  was  a most  unfortunate  affair,  and  expressed  a kind 
of  terror  at  what  the  marquis  might  say  to  it,  as  if  he  could 
have  been  accused  of  being  accessory  to  it. 

Mr.  Murray,  the  gentleman  vsdiose  house  had  received  him, 
offered  to  undertake  the  distressing  task  of  breaking  the  affair 
to  Lady  Euphrasia's  family,  an  offer  Freelove  gladly  accepted, 
declaring  he  felt  himself  too  much  disordered  in  mino  and  body 
to  be  able  to  give  any  directions  relative  to  what  was  necessary 
to  be  done. 

How  Mr.  Murray  executed  his  task  is  already  known  ; but 
it  was  long  ere  the  emotions  of  the  marquis  would  surfer  him 
to  say  he  wished  the  remains  of  Lady  Euphrasia  to  be  brought 
to  the  Castle,  that  all  the  honors  due  to  her  birth  should  be 
paid  them.  This  was  accordingly  done  ; and  the  Castle,  so 
lately  ornamentea  for  her  nuptials,  was  hung  with  black,  and 
all  the  pageantries  of  death. 

The  marquis  and  marchioness  confined  themselves,  in  the 
deepest  anguish,  to  their  apartments ; their  domestics,  filled 
with  terror  and  amazement,  glided  about  like  pale  spectres,  and 
all  was  a scene  of  solemnity  and  sadness.  Every  moment  Lord 
Mortimer  could  spare  from  his  father  he  devoted  to  the  marquis. 
Lady  Euphrasia  had  ever  been  an  object  of  indifference,  nay, 
of  dislike  to  him  ; but  the  manner  of  her  death,  notv/ithstanding^ 
shocked  him  to  the  soul : his  dislike  was  forgotten ; he  thought 
of  her  only  with  pity  and  compassion,  and  the  tears  he  mingled 


554  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

with  the  marquis  were  the  tears  of  unfeigned  sympathy  and 
regret. 

Lady  Martha  and  Lady  Araminta  were  equally  attentive  to 
the  marchioness ; the  time  not  spent  with  Lord  Cherbury  was 
devoted  to  her.  They  used  not  unavailing  arguments  to 
conquer  a grief  which  nature,  as  her  rightful  tribute,  demands ; 
but  they  soothed  that  grief  by  showing  they  sincerely  mourned 
its  source. 

Lord  Cherbury  had  but  short  intervals  of  reason  ; those 
intervals  were  employed  by  Lord  Mortimer  in  trying  to  compose 
his  mind ; and  by  him  in  blessing  his  son  for  those  endeavors, 
and  congratulating  himself  on  the  prospect  of  approaching 
dissolution.  His  words  unutterably  affected  Lord  Mortimer; 
he  had  reason  to  believe  they  were  dictated  by  a prophetic 
spirit ; and  the  dismal  peal  which  rung  from  morning  till  night 
for  Lady  Euphrasia  sounded  in  his  ear  as  the  knell  of  his 
expiring  father. 

Things  were  in  this  situation  in  the  Castle  when  Oscar  and 
his  friend  Sir  Charles  Bingley  arrived  at  it,  and,  without  send- 
ing in  theii  names,  requested  immediate  permission  to  the 
marquis’s  presence,  upon  business  of  importance.  Their 
request  was  complied  with,  from  an  idea  that  they  came  from 
Freelove,  to  whom  the  marquis  and  marchioness,  from  respect 
and  affection  to  the  memory  of  their  daughter,  had  determined 
to  pay  every  attention. 

The  marquis  knew,  and  was  personally  known  to  Sij 
Charles  ; he  was  infinitely  surprised  by  his  appearance,  but  how 
much  was  that  surprise  increased  when  Sir  Charles,  taking 
Oscar  by  the  hand,  presented  him  to  the  marquis  as  the  son  of 
Lady  Fitzalan,  the  rightful  heir  of  the  Earl  of  Dunreath ! The 
marquis  was  confounded  ; he  trembled  at  these  words  ; and  his 
confusion,  had  such  a testimony  been  wanting,  would  have  been 
sufficient  to  prove  his  guilt.  He  at  last,  though  with  a faltering 
♦'oice,  desired  to  know  by  what  means  Sir  Charles  could  justify 
or  support  his  assertion. 

Sir  Charles,  for  Oscar  was  too  much'  agitated  to  speak,  as 
briefly  as  possible  related  all  the  particulars  w’hich  had  led  to 
the  discovery  of  the  earl’s  will ; and  his  friend,  he  added,  with 
the  generosity  of  a noble  mind,  wished  as  much  as  possible  to 
spare  the  feelings  and  save  the  honor  of  those  with  whom  he 
was  connected ; a wish,  which  nothing  but  a hesitation  in  com- 
plying with  his  just  and  well-supported  claim  could  destroy. 

The  marquis’s  agitation  increased  ; already  w^as  he  stripped 
or  happiness,  and  he  now  saw  himself  on  the  point  of 


THE  CHILDREN  OR  THE  ABBEY. 


5SS 


stripped  of  honor.  An  hour  before  he  had  imagined  his 
wretchedness  could  not  be  augmented  \ he  was  now  convinced 
human  misery  cannot  be  complete  without  the  loss  of  reputa 
tion.  In  the  idea  of  being  esteemed,  of  being  thought  undeserving 
our  misfortunes,  there  is  a sweet,  a secret  balm,  which  meliorates 
the  greatest  sorrow.  Of  riches,  in  his  own  right,  the  marquis 
ever  possessed  more  than  sufficient  for  all  his  expenses  : those 
expenses  would  now,  comparatively  speaking,  be  reduced  with- 
in very  narrow  bounds  ; for  the  vain  pride  which  had  led  him 
to  delight  in  pomp  and  ostentation  died  with  Lady  Euphrasia. 
Since,  therefore,  of  his  fortune  such  a superabundance  would 
remain,  it  was  unnecessary  as  well  as  unjust  to  detain  what  he 
had  no  pretensions  to  ; but  he  leared  tamely  acquiescing  to 
this  unexpected  claim,  would  be  to  acknowledge  himself  a 
villain.  ’Tis  true,  indeed,  that  his  newly-felt  remorse  had  in- 
spired him  with  a wish  of  making  reparation  for  his  past  in- 
justice, but  false  shame  starting  up,  hitherto  opposed  it ; and 
even  now,  when  an  opportunity  offered  of  accomplishing  his 
wish,  still  continued  to  oppose  it,  lest  the  scorn  and  contempt 
he  dreaded  should  at  length  be  his  portion  for  his  long  in- 
justice. 

Irresolute  how  to  act,  he  sat  for  some  time  silent  and  em- 
barrassed, till  at  last,  recollecting  his  manner  was  probably 
betraying  what  he  wished  to  conceal,  namely,  the  knowledge 
of  the  will,  he  said,  with  some  sternness,  ‘‘  That,  till  he  in- 
spected into  the  affair  so  recently  laid  before  him,  he  could 
not,  nor  was  it  to  be  expected  he  should,  say  how  he  would 
act ; an  inspection  which,  under  present  melancholy  circum- 
stances, he  could  not  possibly  make  for  some  time.  Had  Mr, 
Fitzalan,’^  he  added,  “possessed  in  reality  that  generosity 
Sir  Charles’s  partiality  ascribed  to  him,  he  wo‘uld  not,  at  a 
period  so  distressing,  have  appeared  to  make  such  a claim. 
To  delicacy  and  sensibility  the  privileges  of  grief  were  ever 
held  sacred.  Those  privileges  they  had  both  violated.  They 
had  intruded  on  his  sorrows  ; they  had  even  insulted  him  by 
appearing  on  such  a business  before  him,  ere  the  last  rites  were 
paid  to  his  lamented  child.”  Sir  Charles  and  Oscar  were  in- 
expressibly shocked.  Both  were  totally  ignorant  of  the  recent 
event. 

Oscar,  as  he  recovered  from  the  surprise  the  marquis’s 
words  had  given  him,  declared,  in  the  impassioned  language 
of  a noble  mind,  hurt  by  being  thought  destitute  of  sensibility, 
‘‘That  the  marquis  had  arraigned  him  unjustly.  Had  he 
known  of  his  sorrows,”  he  said,  “ nothing  should  have  tempted 


THE  CHILDREH  of  THE  ABBEY. 


sss 

him  to  Intrude  upon  them.  He  mourned,  he  respected  them  ; 
\ie  besought  him  to  believe  him  sincere  in  what  he  uttered.’' 
A tear,  an  involuntary  tear,  as  he  spoke,  starting  into  his  eye, 
and  trickling  down  his  cheek,  denoted  his  sincerity.  The 
marquis’s  heart  smote  him  as  he  beheld  this  tear ; it  reproached 
him  more  than  the  keenest  words  could  have  done,  and  operated 
more  in  Oscar’s  favor  than  any  arguments,  however  eloquent. 

Had  this  young  man,”  thought  he,  “ been  really  illiberal 
when  I reproached  him  for  want  of  sensibility,  how  well  might 
he  have  retaliated  upon  me  my  more  flagrant  want  of  justice 
and  humanity ; but  no,  he  sees  I am  a son  of  sorrow,  and  he 
will  not  break  the  reed  which  Heaven  has  already  smitten.” 
Tears  gushed  from  his  eyes.  He  involuntarily  extended  his 
hand  to  Oscar.  ‘‘  I see,”  said  he,  I see,  indeed,  I have  un- 
justly arraigned  you  ; but  I will  endeavor  to  atone  for  my  error. 
At  present,  rest  satisfied  with  an  assurance,  that  whatever  is 
equitable  shall  be  done  ; and  that,  let  events  turn  out  as  they 
may,  I shall  ever  feel  myself  your  friend.”  Oscar  again  ex- 
pressed his  regret  for  having  waited  on  him  at  such  a period, 
and  requested  he  would  dismiss  for  the  present  the  subject 
they  had  been  talking  of  from  his  mind.  The  marquis,  still 
more  pleased  with  his  manner,  desired  his  direction,  and  as- 
sured him  he  should  hear  from  him  sooner  than  he  expected. 

As  soon  as  they  retired,  his  agitation  decreased,  and,  of 
course,  he  was  better  qualified  to  consider  how  he  should  act. 
That  restitution  his  conscience  prompted,  but  his  false  ideas 
of  shame  had  prevented,  he  now  found  he  should  be  compelled 
to  make  ; how  to  make  it,  therefore,  so  as  to  avoid  total  dis- 
grace, was  what  he  considered.  At  last  he  adopted  a scheme, 
which  the  sensibility  of  Oscar,  he  flattered  himself,  would  en- 
able him  to  accomplish.  This  was  to  declare,  that  by  the 
Earl  of  Dunreath’s  will,  Mr.  Fitzalan  was  heir  to  his  estates,  in 
case  of  the  death  of  Lady  Euphrasia  ; that  in  consequence, 
therefore,  of  this  event,  he  had  come  to  take  possession  of  them  ; 
that  Lady  Dunreath  (whose  residence  at  Dunreath  Abbey  he 
could  not  now  hope  to  conceal)  was  but  lately  returned  from  a 
convent  in  France,  where  for  many  years  she  had  resided.  To 
Oscar  he  intended  saying,  from  her  ill  conduct  he  and  the 
marchioness  had  been  tempted  to  sequester  her  from  the 
world,  in  order  to  save  her  from  open  shame  and  derision  ; and 
that  her  declaration  of  a will  they  had  always  believed  the 
mere  fabrication  of  her  brain,  in  order,  as  he  supposed,  to  give 
them  uneasiness.  This  scheme  once  formed,  his  heart  felt  a 
little  relieved  of  the  heavy  burden  of  fear  and  inquietude.  H^ 


THE  CHILD REiY  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


5S7 


•i^tpaired  to  the  marchioness’s  apartment,  and  broke  the  affair 
gently  to  her,  adding,  at  the  same  time,  that,  sensible  as  they 
must  now  be  of  the  vanities  and  pursuits  of  human  life,  it  waf 
dme  for  them  to  endeavor  to  make  their  peace  with  Heaven. 
Affliction  had  taught  penitence  to  the  marchioness,  as  well  as 
her  husband.  She  approved  of  his  scheme,  and  thought,  with 
him,  that  the  sooner  their  intention  of  making  restitution  was 
known  the  greater  would  be  the  probability  of  its  being  accom- 
plished. Oscar,  therefore,  the  next  day  received  a letter  from 
the  marquis,  specifying  at  once  his  wishes.  With  those  wishes 
Oscar  generously  complied.  His  noble  soul  was  superior  to  a 
triumph  over  a fallen  enemy  ; and  he  had  always  wished  rather 
to  save  from,  than  expose  the  marquis  to  disgrace.  He  hastened 
as  soon  as  possible  to  the  castle,  agreeably  to  a request  con- 
tained in  the  letter,  to  assure  the  marquis  his  conduct  through- 
out the  whole  affair  would  be  regulated  according  to  his  desire. 

Perhaps,  at  this  moment,  public  contempt  could  not  have 
humbled  the  marquis  more  than  such  generosity,  when  he  drew 
a comparison  between  himself  and  the  person  he  had  so  long 
injured.  The  striking  contrast  wounded  his  very  soul,  and  he 
groaned  at  the  degradation  he  suffered  in  his  own  eyes.  He 
told  Oscar,  as  soon  as  the  last  sad  duties  were  performed  to  his 
daughter,  he  would  settle  everything  with  him,  and  then  perhaps 
be  able  to  introduce  him  to  the  marchioness.  He  desired  he 
might  take  up  his  residence  in  the  Castle,  and  expressed  a wish 
that  he  would  attend  the  funeral  of  Lady  Euphrasia  as  one  of 
the  chief  mourners.  Oscar  declined  the  former,  but  promised, 
with  a faltering  voice,  to  comply  with  the  latter  request.  He 
then  retired,  and  the  marquis,  who  had  been  roused  from  the 
indulgence  of  his  grief  by  a wish  of  preserving  his  character, 
again  relapsed  into  its  wretchedness.  He  desired  Oscar  to 
to  make  no  secret  of  his  now  being  heir  to  the  Earl  of  Dunreath, 
and  said  he  wouIq  mention  it  himself  in  his  family.  Through 
this  medium,  there  .ore,  did  this  surprising  intelligence  reach 
Lord  Mortimer,  and  his  heart  dilated  with  sudden  joy  at  the 
idea  of  his  Amanda  and  her  brother  at  last  enjoying  indepen- 
dence and  prosperity. 

In  a few  hours  after  this  the  sufferings  of  Lord  Cherbury  were 
terminated.  His  last  faltering  accents  pronounced  blessings  on 
his  son.  Oh  ! hov/  sweet  were  those  blessings  ! How  different 
were  the  feelings  ''‘f  Lord  Mortimer  from  the  callous  sons  of 
dissipation,  who  seem  to  watch  with  impatience  the  last  strug- 
gles of  a parent,  that  they  may  have  more  extensive  means  of 
gratifying  their  inordinate  desires.  The  feelings  of  Lord  Mor- 


THE  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABEET. 


558 

imer  v/ere  soothed  by  reflecting  he  had  done  everything  Ih 
his  power  for  restoring  the  tranquillity  of ' his  father,  and  his 
regret  was  lessened  by  the  conviction  that  Lord  Cherbury, 
after  the  discovery  of  his  conduct,  could  never  more  in  this 
life  have  experienced  happiness.  He  therefore,  with  tender 
piety,  resigned  him  to  his  God  ; humblyt  rusting  that  his  peni- 
tence had  atoned  for  his  frailties,  and  insured  him  felicity. 

He  now  bade  adieu  to  the  Castle  and  its  wretched  owners, 
and  accompanied  Lady  Martha  and  his  sister  to  Thornbury, 
at  which  the  burying-place  of  the  family  lay.  Here  he  con- 
tinued till  the  remains  of  his  father  arrived,  and  were  interred. 
He  then  proceeded  to  London  to  put  into  execution  the  plan  he 
had  projected  for  his  father.  He  immediately  advertised  the 
Tudor  estate.  A step  of  this  kind  could  not  be  concealed 
from  Lady  Martha  ; but  the  mortgages  on  the  other  estates 
he  resolved  carefully  to  guard  from  her  knowledge,  lest 
suspicions  prejudicial  to  the  memory  of  his  father  should 
arise  in  her  mind.  But,  during  this  period,  the  idea  of 
Amanda  was  not  absent  from  his  soul.  Neither  grief  not 
business  could  banish  it  a moment ; and,  again,  a thousand 
fond  and  flattering  hopes  concerning  her  had  revived,  when  a 
sudden  blow  dispersed  them  all,  and  plunged  him,  if  possible, 
into  greater  wretchedness  than  he  had  ever  before  experienced. 
He  heard  it  confidently  reported  that  the  Earl  of  Dunreath’s 
sister  (for  Oscar  by  this  time  had  claimed,  and  been  allowed  to 
take  the  title  of  his  grandfather)  was  to  be  married  to  Sir 
Charles  Bingley.  The  friendship  which  he  knew  subsisted 
between  the  earl  and  Sir  Charles  rendered  this  too  probable. 
But  if  a doubt  concerning  it  still  lingered  in  his  mind,  it  was 
destroyed  when  Sir  Charles  waited  on  him  to  treat  about  the 
purchase  of  Tudor  Hall ; it  instantly  occurred  to  him  that  this 
purchase  was  made  by  the  desire  of  Amanda.  Unable  to  com- 
mand his  feelings,  he  referred  Sir  Charles  to  his  agent,  and 
abruptly  retired.  He  called  her  cruel  and  ungrateful.  After 
all  his  sufferings  on  her  account,  did  he  deserve  so  soon  to  be 
banished  from  her  remembrance — so  soon  supplanted  in  her 
affections  by  another  — by  one,  too,  who  never  had,  who 
never  would  have,  an  opportunity  of  giving  such  proofs  as 
he  had  done  of  constancy  and  love.  She  is  lost,  then  he  sighed  ; 
she  is  lost  forever ! Oh ! what  avails  the  vindication  of 
her  fame  ? Is  it  not  an  augumentation  of  my  misery  ? Oh  I 
my  father,  of  what  a treasure  did  you  despoil  me  ! But  let  me 
not  disturb  the  sacred  ashes  of  the  dead — rest,  rest  in  peace, 
thou  venerable  author  of  my  being  I and  may  the  involuntary 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  559 

expression  of  heart-rending  anguish  be  forgiven!  Amanda, 
then,  he  continued,  after  a pause,  will  indeed  be  mistress  of 
Tudor  Hall ; but  never  will  a sigh  for  him  who  once  was  its 
owner  heave  her  bosom.  She  will  wander  beneath  those  shades 
where  so  often  she  has  heard  my  vows  of  unalterable  love — 
vows  which,  alas  1 my  heart  has  too  fully  observed — and  listen 
to  similar  ones  from  Sir  Charles  : well,  this  is  the  last  stroke 
fate  can  level  at  my  peace. 

Lord  Mortimer  (or,  as  in  future  we  must  style  him.  Lord 
Cherbury)  had  indeed  imagined  that  the  affections  of  Amanda, 
like  his  own,  were  unalterable  ; he  had  therefore  indulged  the 
rapturous  idea,  that,  by  again  seeking  an  union  with  her,  she 
should  promote  the  happiness  of  both.  It  is  true  he  knew  she 
would  possess  a fortune  infinitely  superior  to  what  he  had  now 
a right  to  expect ; but  after  the  proofs  he  had  given  of  dis- 
interested attachment,  not  only  she,  but  the  world,  he  was  con- 
vinced, would  acquit  him  of  any  selfish  motives  in  the  renewal 
of  his  addresses.  His  hopes  destroyed — his  prospect  blasted 
by  what  he  had  heard,  he  resolved,  as  soon  as  affairs  were 
settled,  to  go  abroad.  The  death  of  his  father  had  rendered 
his  entering  the  army  unnecessary,  and  his  spirits  were  too 
much  broken,  his  health  too  much  impaired,  for  him  voluntarily 
now  to  embrace  that  destiny. 

On  the  purchase  of  Tudor  Hall  being  completed  by  Sir 
Charles,  it  was  necessary  for  Lord  Cherbury  to  see  his  steward. 
He  preferred  going  to  sending  for  him,  prompted  indeed  by  a 
melancholy  wish  of  paying  a last  visit  to  Tudor  Hall,  endeared 
to  his  heart  by  a thousand  fond  remembrances.  On  his  arrival 
he  took  up  his  abode  at  the  steward's  for  a day  or  two.  After 
a strict  injunction  to  him  of  concealing  his  being  there,  it  was 
after  a ramble  through  every  spot  about  the  demesne  which  he 
had  ever  trodden  with  Amanda,  that  he  repaired  to  the  library 
and  discovered  her.  He  was  ignorant  of  her  being  in  the 
country.  Oh  ! then,  how  great  was  his  surprise — how  ex- 
quisite his  emotions,  at  seeing  her  in  such  unexpected  circum- 
stances 1 

I shall  not  attempt  to  go  over  the  scene  I have  already 
tried  to  describe ; suffice  it  to  say,  that  the  desire  she  betrayed 
of  hastening  from  him  he  imputed  to  the  alteration  of  her 
sentiments  with  respect  to  him  and  Sir  Charles.  When 
undeceived  in  this  respect,  his  rapture  was  as  great  as  ever 
it  had  before  been  at  the  idea  of  her  love,  and,  like  Amanda, 
fee  declared  his  suffering  was  now  amply  rewarded, 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


CHAPTER  EVIL 

< **  No,  never  from  this  hour  to  part, 

We’ll  live  and  love  » true  ; 

The  sigh  that  rends  thy  constant  heart, 

Shall  break  thy  lover’s  too.” 

But,  my  love,^^  cried  Lord  Cherbury,  as  he  wiped  away  the 
tears  which  pity  and  horror  at  the  fate  of  Lady  Euphrasia  had 
caused  Amanda  to  shed,  “ will  your  brother,  think  you,  sanction 
our  happiness  ? Will  he,  who  might  aspire  so  high  for  a sister 
thus  at  once  possessed  of  beauty  and  fortune,  bestow  her  on 
one  whose  title  may  now  almost  be  considered  an  empty  one  ? 

‘‘  Oh  ! do  not  wrong  his  noble  nature  by  such  a doubt,”  ex- 
claimed Amanda.  “Yes,  with  pride,  with  pleasure,  with  delight, 
will  he  bestow  his  sister  upon  the  esteemed,  the  beloved  of  her 
heart ; upon  him,  who,  unwarped  by  narrow  prejudice  or  self- 
ish interest,  sought  her  in  the  low  shade  of  obscurity,  to  lay, 
all  friendless  and  forlorn  as  she  was,  his  fortune  at  her  feet. 
Could  he  indeed  be  ungrateful  to  such  kindness,  could  he 
attempt  to  influence  me  to  another  choice,  my  heart  would  at 
once  repulse  the  effort,  and  avow  its  fixed  determination;  but 
he  is  incapable  of  such  conduct ; my  Oscar  is  all  that  is  gener- 
ous and  feeling ; need  I say  more,  than  that  a spirit  congenial 
to  yours  animates  his  breast.” 

Lord  Cherbury  clasped  her  to  his  heart.  “ Dearest,  loveliest 
of  human  beings,”  he  exclaimed,  “ shall  I at  length  call  you 
mine.^  After  all  my  sorrows,  my  difficulties,  shall  I indeed 
receive  so  precious  a reward  ? Oh  I wonder  not,  my  Amanda,  if  I 
doubt  the  reality  of  so  sudden  a reverse  of  situation  ; I feel  as 
if  under  the  influence  of  a happy  dream  ; but,  good  Heaven  ! 
a dream  from  which  I never  wish  to  be  awakened.” 

Amanda  now  recollected  that  if  she  stayed  much  longer 
from  the  cottage  she  would  have  some  one  coming  in  quest  of 
her.  She  informed  Lord  Cherbury  of  this,  and  rose  to  depart ; 
but  he  would  not  suffer  her  to  depart  alone,  neither  did  she 
desire  it.  The  nurse  and  her  daughter  Betsey  were  in  the 
cottage  at  her  return  to  it.  To  describe  the  surprise  of  the 
former  at  the  appearance  of  Lord  Cherbury  is  impossible — • 
a surprise  mingled  with  indignation,  at  the  idea  of  his  falsehood 
to  her  darling  child  ; but  when  undeceived  in  that  respect, 
ber  transports  were  of  the  most  extravagant  nature. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 

••  Well,  she  thanked  Heaven/’  she  said,  “ should  now  see 
her  dear  child  hold  up  her  head  again,  and  look  as  hand- 
seme  as  ever.  Ay,  she  had  always  doubted,”  she  said,  “ that 
his  lortship  was  not  one  of  the  false-hearted  men  she  had 
so  often  heard  her  old  grandmother  talk  of.”  “ My  good 
nurse,”  said  Lord  Cherbury,  smiling,  you  will  then  give  me 
your  dear  child  with  all  your  heart  1 ” ‘‘  Ay,  that  I will,  my 

lort,”  she  replied,  ‘‘  and  this  very  moment  too,  if  I could.” 

Well,”  cried  Amanda,  ‘‘  his  lordship  will  be  satisfied  at  present 
with  getting  his  dinner  from  you.”  She  then  desired  tli^e  things 
to  be  brought  to  the  little  arbor,  already  described  at  the  begin- 
ning of  this  book,  and  proceeded  to  it  with  Lord  Cherbury. 
The  mention  of  dinner  threw  nurse  and  her  daughter  into 
universal  commotion. 

‘‘  Good  lack  ! how  unfortunate  it  was  she  had  nothing  hot 
or  nice  to  lay  pefore  his  lortship  ! How  could  she  think  he 
could  dine  upon  cold  lamb  and  salad  ! Well,  this  was  all  Miss 
Amanda’s  fault,  who  would  never  let  her  do  as  she  wished.” 
With  the  utmost  difficulty  she  was  persuaded  he  could  dine 
upon  these  things.  The  cloth  was  laid  upon  the  flowery  turf, 
beneath  the  spreading  branches  of  the  arbor.  The  delicacies 
of  the  dairy  were  added  to  their  repast,  and  Betsey  provided  a 
dessert  of  new  filberts. 

Never  had  Lord  Cherbury  partaken  of  so  delicious  a meal 
— never  had  he  and  Amanda  experienced  such  happiness.  The 
pleasure,  the  tenderness  of  their  souls,  beamed  in  expressive 
glances  from  their  eyes,  and  they  were  now  more  convinced 
than  ever  that  the  humble  scenes  of  life  were  best  calculated 
tor  the  promotion  of  felicity.  Lord  Cherbury  felt  more  recon- 
ciled than  he  had  been  before  to  the  diminution  of  his  fortune  ; 
he  yet  retained  sufficient  for  the  comforts,  and  many  of  the 
elegancies  of  life.  The  splendor  he  lost  was  insignificant  in 
his  eyes  ; his  present  situation  proved  happiness  could  be  en- 
joyed without  it,  and  he  knew  it  was  equally  disregarded  by 
Amanda.  He  asked  himself, 

“ What  was  the  world  to  them — 

Its  pomps,  its  pleasures,  and  its  nonsense  all, 

Who  in  each  other  clasp,  whatever  fair 
High  fancy  forms,  or  lavish  hearts  can  wish  ? ” 

Ail  nature  looked  gay  and  smiling  around  him.  He  inhaled  the 
balmy  breath  of  opening  flowers,  and  through  the  verdant  canopy 
he  sat  beneath,  he  saw  the  bright  azure  of  the  heavens,  and  felt 
the  benignant  influence  of  the  sun,  whose  potent  beams  height- 
ened to  glowing  luxuriance  the  beautie.5  of  the  surrounding  lard- 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


562 

scape.  He  expressed  his  feelings  to  Amanda ; he  heard  her 
declare  the  similarity  of  hers ; heard  her  with  all  the  sweet 
enthusiasm  of  a refined  and  animated  mind,  expatiate  on  the 
lovely  scene  around  them.  Oh ! what  tender  remembrances 
did  it  awaken,  and  what  delightful  plans  of  felicity  did  they 
sketch  ! Lord  Cherbury  would  hear  from  Amanda  all  she  had 
suffered  since  their  separation  ; and  could  his  love  and  esteem 
have  been  increased,  her  patient  endurance  of  the  sorrows  she  re- 
lated would  have  increased  them.  They  did  not  leave  the  garden 
till  a dusky  hue  had  overspread  the  landscape.  Oh ! with  what 
emotions  did  Amanda  watch  the  setting  sun,  whose  rising  beams 
she  had  beheld  with  eyes  obscured  by  tears  of  sorrow ! As  they 
sat  at  tea  in  the  room,  she  could  not  avoid  noticing  the  altera- 
tion in  the  nurse’s  dress  who  attended.  She  had  put  on  all  her 
holiday  finery ; and,  to  evince  her  wish  of  amusing  her  guests, 
had  sent  for  the  blind  harper,  whom  she  stationed  outside  the 
cottage.  His  music  drew  a number  of  the  neighboring  cottagers 
about  him,  and  they  would  soon  have  led  up  a dance  in  the 
vale,  had  not  the  nurse  prevented  them,  lest  they  should  disturb 
her  guests.  Lord  Cherbury,  however,  insisted  on  their  being 
gratified,  and,  sending  for  his  servant,  ordered  him  to  provide 
refreshments  for  them,  and  to  reward  the  harper.  He  would 
not  leave  Amanda  till  he  had  her  permission  to  come  early 
next  morning,  as  soon  as  he  could  hope  to  see  her.  Accordingly 
the  first  voice  she  heard  on  rising  was  his  chatting  to  the  nurse. 
We  may  believe  she  did  not  spend  many  minutes  at  her  toilet. 
The  neat  simplicity  of  her  dress  never  required  she  should  do 
so,  and  in  a very  short  time  she  joined  him.  They  walked  Out 
till  breakfast  was  ready. 

“Together  trod  the  morning  dews,  and  gathered 
In  their  prime  feesh  blooming  sweets.” 

Amanda,  in  hourly  expectation  of  her  brother’s  arrival, 
wished,  ere  he  came,  to  inform  the  inhabitants  of  the  cottage 
of  the  alteration  of  his  fortune.  This,  with  the  assistance  of 
Lord  Cherbury,  she  took  an  opportunity  of  doing  in  the  course 
of  the  day  to  the  nurse.  Had  she  been  sole  relator,  she  feared 
she  should  have  been  overwhelmed  with  questions.  Joy  and 
wonder  were  excited  in  an  extreme  degree  by  this  relation,  and 
nothing  but  the  nurse’s  hurry  and  impatience  to  communicate 
it  to  her  family,  could  have  prevented  her  from  asking  again 
and  again  a repetition  of  it. 

Lord  Cherbury  now,  as  on  the  foregoing  day,  dined  with 
Amanda.  Her  expectations  relative  to  the  speedy  arrival  of 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


563 

her  brother  were  not  disappointed.  While  sitting  after  dinner 
with  Lord  Cherbury  in  the  garden,  the  nurse,  half  breathless, 
came  running  to  tell  them  that  a superb  coach  and  four,  which 
to  be  sure  must  be  my  Lort  Dunreath^s,  was  coming  down  the 
road. 

Lord  Cherbury  colored  with  emotion.  Amanda  did  not 
wish  he  and  her  brother  should  meet,  till  she  had  explained 
everything  relative  to  him.  By  her  desire  he  retired  to  the 
valley,  to  which  a winding  path  from  the  garden  descended, 
whilst  she  hurried  to  the  cottage  to  receive  and  welcome  her 
beloved  brother.  Their  meeting  was  at  once  tender  and  affect- 
ing. The  faithful  Edwins  surrounded  Oscar  with  delight  and 
rapture,  pouring  forth,  in  their  simple  style,  congratulations  on 
his  happy  fortune,  and  their  wishes  for  his  long  enjoying  it. 
He  thanked  them  with  a starting  tear  of  sensibility.  He  assured 
them  that  their  attentions  to  his  dear  sister,  his  lamented 
parents,  his  infant  years,  entitled  them  to  a lasting  gratitude. 
As  soon  as  he  and  Amanda  could  disengage  themselves  from 
the  good  creatures,  without  wounding  their  feelings,  they  retired 
to  her  room,  where  Oscar  related,  as  we  have  already  done,  all 
that  passed  between  him  and  the  Marquis  of  Roslin. 

As  soon  as  the  funeral  of  Lady  Euphrasia  was  over,  the 
marquis  settled  everything  with  him,  and  put  him  into  formal 
possession  of  Dunreath  Abbey.  By  the  marquis’s  desire,  he 
then  waited  upon  Lady  Dunreath,  to  inform  her  she  was  at 
liberty,  and  to  request  she  would  not  contradict  the  assertion 
of  having  been  abroad.  Mrs.  Bruce  had  previously  informed 
her  of  the  revolution  of  affairs.  “ I own,”  continued  Oscar, 
from  the  cruelty  to  my  mother,  and  the  depravity  of  her  con- 
duct, I was  strongly  prejudiced  against  her,  attributing,  I 
acknowledge,  her  doing  justice  to  us,  in  some  degree,  to  her 
resentment  against  the  marquis  ; but  the  moment  I entered 
her  apartment  this  prejudice  vanished,  giving  place  to  the  softer 
emotions  of  pity  and  tenderness,  while  a thorough  conviction 
of  her  sincere  repentance  broke  upon  my  soul.  Though  pre- 
pared to  see  a form  reduced  by  affliction  and  confinement,  I was 
not  by  any  means  prepared  to  see  a form  so  emaciated,  so 
death-like — a faint  motion  of  her  head,  as  I entered,  alone 
proved  her  existence.  Had  the  world  been  given  me  to  do  so, 
I think  I could  not  have  broken  a silence  so  awful.  At  length 
she  spoke,  and  in  language  that  pierced  my  heart,  implored  my 
forgiveness  for  the  sufferings  she  had  caused  me  to  endure. 
Repeatedly  I assured  her  of  it ; but  this  rather  heightened  than 
diminished  her  agitation,  and  tears  and  sobs  spoke  the  anguish 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


of  her  soul.  ‘ I have  lived/  she  cried,  * to  justify  the  ways  of 
Providence  to  men,  and  prove  that,  however  calamity  may 
oppress  the  virtuous,  they  or  their  descendants  shall  at  last 
flourish,  I have  lived  to  see  my  contrite  wish  accomplished, 
and  the  last  summons  will  now  be  a welcome  release.^  She 
expressed  an  ardent  desire  to  see  her  daughter.  ‘ The  pitying 
tears  of  a mother,’  she  exclaimed,  ‘ may  be  as  balm‘  to  her 
w^ounded  heart.  Oh  ! my  prophetic  words,  how  often  have  I 
prayed  that  the  punishment  I then  denounced  against  her  might 
be  averted ! ’ 

“ I signified  her  desire,”  continued  Oscar,  ‘‘  to  the  marquis. 
I found  the  marchioness  at  first  reluctant  to  it,  from  a secret 
diead,  I suppose,  of  seeing  an  object  so  injured  ; but  she  at 
last  consented,  and  I was  requested  to  bring  Lady  Dunreath 
from  the  Abbey,  and  conduct  her  to  the  marchioness’s  room. 
I will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  scene  whicfi  passed  between 
affection  on  the  one  hand,  and  penitence  on  the  other.  The 
marchioness  indeed  seemed  truly  penitent : remorse  and  horror 
were  visible  in  her  countenance,  as  she  gazed  upon  her  injured 
parent.  I begged  Lady  Dunreath,  if  agreeable  to  her,  still  to 
consider  the  Abbey  as  her  residence.  This,  however,  she 
declined,  and  it  was  determined  she  should  continue  with  her 
daughter.  Pier  last  moments  may,  perhaps,  be  soothed  by 
closing  in  the  presence  of  her  child  ; but  till  then,  I think,  her 
wretchedness  must  be  aggravated  by  beholding  that  of  the 
marquis  and  his  wife.  Theirs  is  that  situation  where  comfort 
can  neither  be  offered  nor  suggested — hopeless  and  incurable 
is  their  sorrow — for,  to  use  the  beautiful  and  emphatic  words  of 
a late  celebrated  writer,  ‘ The  gates  of  death  are  shut  upon  their 
prospects.’  ” 

Amanda  now,  after  a little  hesitation,  proceeded  to  inform 
Oscar  of  her  real  situation,  and  entreated  him  to  believe  that 
she  never  would  have  had  a concealment  from  him,  but  for  the 
fear  of  giving  him  uneasiness.  He  folded  her  to  his  bosom  as 
she  ceased  speaking,  declaring  he  rejoiced  and  congratulated 
her  on  having  found  an  object  so  well  qualified  to  make  her 
happy. 

‘‘  But  where  is  this  dear  creature  ? ” cried  Oscar,  with  some 
gayety;  ‘‘am  I to  search  for  him,  like  a favorite  sylph,  in  your 
bouquet ; or,  with  more  probability  of  success,  seek  him  amongst 
the  shades  of  the  garden  Come,”  said  he,  “ your  looks  confess 
our  search  will  not  be  troublesome.”  He  led  her  to  the  garden. 
Lord  Cherbury,  who  had  lingered  near  it,  saw  them  approaching. 
Amanda  motioned  him  to  meet  them.  Pie  sprang  forward,  and 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


565 

was  instantly  introduced  by  her  to  Lord  Dunreath..  The  recei> 
tion  he  met  was  the  most  flattering  proof  he  could  receive  of 
his  Amanda’s  affections  ; for  what  but  the  most  animated  ex* 
pressions  in  his  favor  could  have  made  Lord  Dunreath,  at  the 
first  introduction,  address  him  with  all  the  fervency  of  friendship  ? 
Extremes  of  joy  and  sorrow  are  difficult  to  describe.  I shall, 
therefore,  as  perfectly  conscious  of  my  inability  to  do  justice  to 
the  scene  which  followed  this  introduction,  pass  it  over  in 
silence.  Lord  Dunreath  had  ordered  his  equipage  and  attend- 
ants to  the  village  inn,  where  he  himself  intended  to  lodge. 
But  this  was  prevented  by  Lord  Cherbury,  who  informed  him 
he  could  be  accommodated  at  his  steward’s.  It  was  here,  when 
they  had  retired  for  the  night,  that.  Lord  Cherbury  having  in- 
timated his  wishes  for  an  immediate  union  with  Amanda,  all 
the  necessary  preliminaries  were  talked  over  and  adjusted ; and 
it  was  agreed  that  the  marriage  should  take  place  at  the  cottage, 
from  whence  they  should  immediately  proceed  to  Lady  Martha’s, 
and  that  to  procure  a license,  they  should  both  depart  the  next 
morning.  At  breakfast,  therefore,  Amanda  was  apprised  o^’ 
their  plan,  and  though  the  glow  of  modesty  overspread  herfaf:e 
she  did  not  with  affectation  object  to  it. 

With  greater  expedition  than  Amanda  expected,  the  travel- 
lers returned  from  the  journey  they  had  been  obliged  to  take, 
and  at  their  earnest  and  united  request,  without  any  affectation 
of  modesty,  though  with  its  real  feelings,  Amanda  consented 
that  the  marriage  should  take  place  the  day  but  one  after  their 
return.  Howel  was  sent  for,  and  informed  of  the  hour  his  ser- 
vices would  be  required.  His  mild  eyes  evinced  to  Amanda 
his  sincere  joy  at  the  termination  of  her  sorrows. 

On  the  destined  morning.  Lord  Dunreath  and  his  friend 
went  over  to  the  cottage,  and  in  a few  minutes  were  joined  by 
Amanda,  the  perfect  model  of  innocence  and  beauty.  She 
looked,  indeed,  the  child  of  sweet  simplicity,  arrayed  with  the 
unstudied  elegance  of  a village  maid ; she  had  no  ornaments 
but  those  which  could  never  decay,  namely,  modesty  and 
meekness. 

Language  was  inadequate  to  express  the  feelings  of  Lord 
Cherbury.  His  fine  eyes  alone  could  do  them  justice — alone 
reveal  what  might  be  the  sacred  triumph  of  his  soul  at  gaining 
such  a woman.  A soft  shade  of  melancholy  stole  over  the  fine 
features  of  Lord  Dunreath,  as  he  witnessed  the  happiness  of 
Lord  Cherbury ; for  as  his  happiness,  so  might  his  own  have 
been,  but  for  the  blackest  perfidy. 

As  Lord  Cherbury  took  the  trembling  hand  of  Amanda,  to 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


S66 

lead  her  from  the  cottage,  she  gave  a farewell  sigh  to  a 
where,  it  might  be  said,  her  happiness  had  commenced  and  was 
completed.  They  walked  to  the  church,  followed  by  the  nurse 
and  her  family.  Some  kind  hand  had  strewed  Lady  Malvina’s 
grave  with  the  gayest  flowers,  and  when  Amanda  reached  it  she 
paused  involuntarily  for  a moment,  to  invoke  the  spirits  of  her 
parents  to  bless  her  union. 

Howel  was  already  in  the  church,  waiting  to  receive  them, 
and  the  ceremony  was  begun  without  delay.  With  the  truest 
pleasure  did  Lord  Dunreath  give  his  lovely  sister  to  Lord  Cher- 
bury,  and  with  the  liveliest  transport  did  he  receive  her  as  the 
choicest  gift  Heaven  could  bestow.  Tears  of  sweet  sensibility 
fell  from  Amanda,  as  Lord  Cherbury  folded  her  to  his  bosom 
as  his  own  Amanda.  Nor  was  he  less  affected;  joy  of  the 
most  rapturous  kind  agitated  his  whole  soul  at  the  completion 
of  an  event  so  earnestly  desired,  but  so  long  despaired  of.  He 
wiped  away  her  tears,  and,  when  she  had  received  the  congrats 
ulations  of  her  brother,  presented  her  to  the  rest  of  the  little 
group.  Their  delight,  particularly  the  nurse’s,  was  almost  too 
great  for  expression. 

“ Well,”  she  said,  sobbing,  thank  Cot  her  wish  was  fulfilled. 
It  had  been  her  prayer,  night,  noon,  and  morn,  to  see  the  taughter 
of  her  tear,  tear  Captain  Fitzalan  greatly  married.”  Poor  Ellen 
wept — “ Well,  now  she  should  be  happy,”  she  said,  “ since  she 
knew  her  tear  young  laty  was  so.”  Amanda,  affected  by  the 
artless  testimonies  of  affection  she  received,  could  only  smile 
upon  the  faithful  creatures. 

Lord  Cherbury,  seeing  her  unable  to  speak,  took  her  hand, 
and  said — “ Lord  Cherbury  never  would  forget  the  obligations 
conferred  upon  Miss  Fitzalan.”  Bridal  favors  and  presents 
had  already  been  distributed  among  the  Edwins.  Howel  was 
handsomely  complimented  on  the  occasion,  and  received  some 
valuable  presents  from  Lord  Cherbury,  as  proofs  of  his  sin- 
cere friendship  ; also  money  to  distribute  among  the  indigent 
villagers.  His  lordship  then  handed  Amanda  into  his  coach, 
already  prepared  for  its  journey  to  Thornbury,  and  the  little 
bridal  party  were  followed  by  the  most  ardent  blessings.  After 
proceeding  a quarter  of  a mile,  they  reached  Tudor  Hall. 

“ I wish,  my  lord,”  cried  Oscar,  as  they  were  driving  round 
the  wood,  you  would  permit  me  to  stop  and  view  the  Hall, 
and  also  accompany  me  to  it.”  Lord  Cherbury  looked  a little 
embarrassed.  He  felt  a strong  reluctance  to  visit  it,  when  no 
longer  his,  yet  he  could  not  think  of  refusing  the  earl.  Amanda 
knew  his  feelings,  and  wished  her  brother  had  not  made  such 


TH^  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


567 

a request.  No  opposition,  however,  being  shown  to  it,  they 
stopped  at  the  great  gate  which  opened  into  the  avenue,  and 
alighted.  This  was  a long,  beautiful  walk,  cut  through  the 
wood,  and  in  a direct  line  with  the  house.  On  either  side  were 
little  grassy  banks,  now  covered  with  a profusion  of  gay  flow- 
ers, and  a thick  row  of  trees,  which,  waving  their  old  fantastic 
branches  on  high,  formed  a most  delightful  shade.  Honey" 
suckles  twined  around  many  of  the  trunks,  forming  in  some 
places  luxuriant  canopies,  and  with  a variety  of  aromatic  shrubs 
quite  perfumed  the  air.  It  was  yet  an  early  hour ; the  dew,  there- 
fore, still  sparkled  upon  the  grass,  and  everything  looked  in  the 
highest  verdure.  Through  vistas  in  the  wood,  a fine  clear  rivet 
was  seen,  along  whose  sides  beautiful  green  slopes  were  stretched, 
scattered  over  with  flocks,  that  spread  their  swelling  treasures 
to  the  sun.  The  birds  sung  sweetly  in  the  embowering  recesses 
of  the  woods,  and  so  calm,  so  lovely  did  the  place  appear,  that 
Lord  Cherbury  could  not  refrain  a sigh  for  its  loss.  How 
delighted,’’  cried  he,  casting  his  fine  eyes  around,  should  I have 
been  still  to  have  cherished  those  old  trees,  beneath  whose 
shades  some  of  my  happiest  hours  were  passed.”  They  entered 
the  hall,  whose  folding  door  they  found  open.  It  was  large 
and  gothic  ; a row  of  arched  windows  were  on  either  side,  whose 
recesses  were  filled  with  myrtles,  roses,  and  geraniums,  which 
emitted  a delicious  perfume,  and,  contrasted  with  the  white  walls, 
gave  an  appearance  of  the  greatest  gayety  to  the  place. 

Oscar  led  the  way  to  a spacious  parlor  at  the  end  of  the 
hall.  But  how  impossible  to  describe  the  surprise  and  pleasure 
of  Lord  and  Lady  Cherbury,  on  entering  it,  at  beholding  Lady 
Martha  and  Lady  Araminta  Dormer  ! Lord  Cherbury  stood 
transfixed  like  a statue.  The  caresses  of  his  aunt  and  his 
sister,  which  were  shared  between  him  and  his  bride,  restored 
him  to  animation ; but  while  he  returned  them,  he  cast  his  eyes 
upon  Oscar,  and  demanded  an  explanation  of  the  scene.  “ I 
shall  give  no  explanation,  my  lord,”  cried  Oscar,  “ till  you 
welcome  your  friends  to  your  house.” 

“ My  house  ! ” repeated  Lord  Cherbury,  staring  at  him. 
Lord  Dunreath  approached.  Never  had  he  appeared  so  en- 
gaging. The  benignant  expression  his  countenance  assumed 
was  such  as  we  may  suppose  an  angel  sent  from  heaven,  on 
benevolent  purposes  to  man,  would  wear. 

“ Excuse  me,  my  dear  Cherbury,”  said  he,  “ for  suffering 
you  to  feel  any  uneasiness  which  I could  remove.  I only  did 
so  from  an  idea  of  increasing  your  pleasure  hereafter.  In 
Scotland  I was  informed  of  your  predilection  for  my  sister  by 


568  the  children  of  the  abbey. 

Lady  Greystock,  whom,  I fancy,  you  have  both  some  reason  to- 
remember,  in  consequence  of  which,  on  seeing  Tudor  Hall 
advertised,  I begged  Sir  Charles  Bingley  to  purchase  it  for  me, 
in  his  own  name,  from  a presentiment  1 had,  that  the  event  I 
now  rejoice  at  would  take  place  ; and  from  my  wish  of  having 
a nuptial  present  for  my  sister  worthy  of  her  acceptance.  Let 
me,”  continued  he,  taking  a hand  of  each  and  joining  them 
^gether,  ‘‘  let  me,  in  this  respected  mansion,  and  in  the  dear 
presence  of  those  you  love,  again  wish  you  a continuance  of 
every  blessing.  May  this  seat,  as  heretofore,  be  the  scene  of 
domestic  happiness  ; may  it  ever  be  a pleasing  abode  to  the 
prosperous,  and  an  asylum  of  comfort  to  the  afflicted.’’ 

Lord  Cherbury’s  heart  was  too  full  for  words.  He  turned 
aside  to  wipe  away  his  starting  tears.  At  last,  though  in  a 
broken  voice,  he  said,  I cannot  speak  my  feelings.”  ‘‘  Pain 
me  not,”  cried  Oscar,  by  attempting  to  do  so.  From  this 
moment  forget  that  Tudor  Hall  was  ever  out  of  your  posses- 
sion ; or,  if  you  must  remember  it,  think  it  restored  to  you 
with  an  encumbrance,  which  half  the  fashionable  men  in  Eng- 
(and  would  give  an  estate  to  get  rid  of,  and  this  will  conquer 
your  too  refined  feelings.” 

Lord  Cherbury  smiled  as  he  looked  at  the  lovely  encum- 
brance which  Oscar  alluded  to.  And  what  shall  I say  to  my 
brother  ? ” cried  Amanda,  throwing  herself  into  his  arms. 
'AVhy,  that  you  will  compose  your  spirits,  and  endeavor  to 
give  a proper  welcome  to  your  friends.”  He  presented  her  to 
Lady  Martha  and  Lady  Araminta,  who  again  embraced  and 
congratulated  her.  He  then  led  her  to  the  head  of  the  break- 
fast table,  which  was  elegantly  laid  out.  The  timid  bride  was 
assisted  in  doing  the  honors  by  her  brother  and  Lord  Cher- 
Dury.  Lady  Martha  beheld  the  youthful  pair  with  the 
truest  delight.  Never  had  she  before  seen  two,  from  equal 
merit  and  loveliness,  so  justly  formed  to  make  each  other 
happy  ; never  had  she  seen  either  to  such  advantage.  The 
beautiful  coloring  of  health  and  modesty  tinged  the  soft  cheeks 
of  Amanda,  and  her  eyes,  through  their  long  lashes,  emitted 
mild  beams  of  pleasure ; its  brightest  glow  mantled  the  cheeks 
of  Lord  Cherbury,  and  his  eyes  were  again  illumined  with  all 
their  wonted  radiancy. 

Oscar  was  requested  to  tell  particularly  how  he  had  ar- 
ranged his  plan  ; which  he  accordingly  did.  He  had  written  to 
the  ladies  at  Thornbury,  informing  them  of  his  scheme,  and  re- 
questing their  presence,  and  on  the  preceding  night  they  had 
arrived  at  the  Hall.  Lord  Dunreath  also  added,  that  frora  a 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY  569 

certainty  of  its  being  agreeable  to  Lord  Cherbury,  he  had 
directed  the  steward  to  reinstate  the  old  servants  in  their  former 
stations,  and  also  to  invite  the  tenants  to  a nuptial  feast.  Lord 
Cherbury  assured  him  he  had  done  what  was  truly  grateful  to 
his  feelings.  A ramble  about  the  garden  and  shrubberies  was 
proposed,  and  agreed  to,  after  breakfast.  In  the  hall  and 
avenue  the  servants  and  tenants  were  already  assembled.  Lord 
Cherbury  went  among  them  all,  and  the  grateful  joy  they  ex- 
p/ressed  at  having  him  again  for  a master  and  a landlord  deeply 
affected  his  feelings.  He  thanked  them  for  their  regard,  and 
received  their  congratulations  on  his  present  happiness  with 
that  sweetness  and  affability  which  ever  distinguished  his  man- 
ners. The  ramble  was  delightful.  When  the  sun  had  attained 
its  meridian,  they  sought  the  cool  shade,  and  retired  to  little, 
romantic  arbors,  over-canopied  with  woodbines,  where,  as  if  by 
the  hand  of  enchantment,  they  found  refreshments  laid  out 
They  did  not  return  to  the  house  till  they  received  a summons 
to  dinner,  and  had  then  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  tenants  seated 
at  long  tables  in  the  wood,  enjoying  with  unbounded  mirth  vhe 
profusion  with  which  they  were  covered,  and  Lord  Cl:erb?u}' 
begged  Amanda  to  observe  her  nurse  seated  at  the  head  01  one 
of  these  tables,  with  an  air  of  the  greatest  self-importance. 
The  pride  and  vanity  of  this  good  woman  (and  she  always  pos- 
sessed a large  share  of  both)  had  been  considerably  increased 
from  the  time  her  cottage  was  honored  with  such  noble  guests. 
When  she  received  an  invitation  from  the  steward  to  accompany 
the  rest  of  the  tenants  to  the  Hall  to  celebrate  its  restoration 
to  Lord  Cherbury,  her  joy  and  exultation  knew  no  bounds  ; she 
took  care  to  walk  with  the  wives  of  some  of  the  most  respect- 
able tenants,  describing  to  them  all  that  had  passed  at  the  cere- 
mony, and  how  the  earl  had  first  fallen  in  love  with  his  bride 
at  her  cottage,  and  v/hat  trials  they  had  undergone,  no  toubt,  to 
prove  their  constancy.  “ Cot  pless  their  hearts,’^  she  said  to 
her  eager  auditors  ; ‘‘  she  could  tell  them  of  such  tangers  and 
tifficulties,  and  tribulations,  as  would  surprise  the  very  souls 
in  their  poties.  Well,-  well,  it  is  now  her  tear  child’s  turn  to 
hold  up  her  head  with  the  highest  in  the  land,  and  to  pe  sure 
she  might  now  say,  without  telling  a lie,  that  her  tear  latyship 
would  now  make  somepoty  of  herself,  and,  please  Cot,  she 
hoped  and  pelieved,  she  would  not  tisgrace  or  tisparage  a petter 
situation.”  When  she  came  near  the  countess,  she  took  care 
to  press  forward  for  a gracious  look  ; but  this  was  not  all ; 
she  had  always  envied  the  consequence  of  Mrs.  Abergwilly  in 
having  so  great  a house  as  the  Hall  entirely  under  her  manage- 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


S70 

ment,  and  she  now  determined,  upon  the  strength  of  her  favor 
with  Lady  Cherbury,  to  having  something  to  say  to  it,  and,  of 
course,  increase  her  consequence  among  her  neighbors.  There 
was  nothing  on  earth  she  so  much  delighted  in  as  bustle,  and 
the  present  scene  was  quite  adapted  to  her  taste,  for  all  within 
and  without  the  house  was  joyous  confusion.  The  first  speci- 
men she  gave  of  her  intention  was,  in  helping  to  distribute  re 
freshments  among  the  tenants ; she  then  proceeded  to  the 
dinner-parlor,  to  give  her  opinion,  and  assistance,  and  direction 
about  laying  out  the  table.  Mrs.  Abergwilly,  like  the  gener- 
ality of  those  accustomed  to  absolute  power,  could  not  tamely 
submit  to  any  innovation  on  it.  She  curbed  her  resentment, 
however,  and  civilly  told  Mrs.  Edwin  she  wanted  no  assistance  ; 
‘‘  thank  Cot,’’  she  said,  “she  was  not  come  to  this  time  of  tay 
without  peing  able  give  proper  tirections  about  laying  out  a 
table.”  Mrs.  Edwin  said,  “ To  be  sure  Mrs.  Abergwilly  might 
have  a very  pretty  taste,  but  then  another  person  might  have 
as  good  a one.”  The  day  was  intensely  hot ; she  pinned  back 
her  gown,  which  was  a rich  silk  that  had  belonged  to  Lady 
Malvina,  and,  without  further  ceremony,  began  altering  the 
dishes,  saying,  she  knew  the  taste  of  her  tear  laty,  the  countess, 
better  that  any  one  else,  and  that  she  would  take  an  early  op- 
portunity of  going  through  the  apartments,  and  telling  Mrs. 
Abergwilly  how  to  arrange  the  furniture. 

The  Welsh  blood  of  the  housekeeper  could  bear  no  more, 
and  she  began  abusing  Mrs.  Edwin,  though  in  terms  scarcely 
articulate,  to  which  she  replied  with  interest.  In  the  midst  of 
this  fracas,  old  Edwin  entered.  “ For  the  love  of  Cot,”  he 
asked,  “ and  the  mercy  of  Heaven,  could  they  choose  no  other 
time  or  tay  than  the  present  to  pegin  to  fight,  and  scold,  and 
abuse  each  other  like  a couple  of  Welsh  witches  What  would 
the  noble  earl  and  the  countess  say  ? Oh,  Lord  ! oh.  Lord ! 
he  felt  himself  blushing  all  over  for  their  misdemeanors.”  His 
remonstrance  had  an  immediate  effect ; they  were  both  ashamed 
of  their  conduct ; their  rage  abated  ; they  became  friends,  and 
Mrs.  Edwin  resigned  the  direction  of  the  dinner-table  to  Mrs. 
Abergwilly,  satisfied  with  being  allowed  to  preside  among  the 
tenants. 

The  bridal  party  found  Howel  in  the  dining  parlor,  and  his 
company  increased  their  pleasure.  After  dinner  the  rustics 
commenced  dancing  in  the  avenue,  to  the  strains  of  the  harp, 
and  afforded  a delightful  scene  of  innocent  gayety  to  their 
benevolent  entertainers,  who'  smiled  to  see 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


57* 


**The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown 
By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down : 

The  bashful  virgin’s  side- long  looks  of  love, 

The  matron’s  glance  that  would  those  looks  reprova’* 

After  tea  the  party  went  out  amongst  them,  and  the  gentle- 
men, for  a short  time,  mingled  in  the  dance.  Long  it  could  not 
detain  Lord  Cherbury  from  his  Amanda.  Oh  ! with  what  ecstasy 
did  he  listen  to  the  soft  accents  of  her  voice,  while  his  fond 
heart  assured  him  she  was  now  his  ! The  remembrance  of  past 
difficulties  but  increased  his  present  felicity.  In  the  course  of 
the  week  all  the  neighboring  families  came  to  pay  their  con- 
gratulations at  Tudor  Hall ; invitations  were  given  and  received, 
and  it  again  became  the  seat  of  pleasure  and  hospitality ; but 
Amanda  did  not  suffer  the  possession  of  happiness  to  obliterate 
one  grateful  remembrance  from  her  mind.  She  was  not  one  of 
those  selfish  beings,  who,  on  being  what  is  termed  settled  for 
life,  immediately  contract  themselves  within  the  narrow  sphere 
of  their  own  enjoyments  ; still  was  her  heart  as  sensible  as  ever 
to  the  glow  of  friendship  and  compassion.  She  wrote  to  all  the 
friends  she  had  ever  received  kindness  from,  in  terms  of  the 
warmest  gratitude,  and  her  letters  were  accompanied  by  presents 
sufficiently  valuable  to  prove  her  sincerity.  She  sent  an  invi- 
tation to  Emily  Rushbrook,  which  was  immediately  accepted. 
And  now  a discovery  took  place  which  infinitely  surprised  and 
pleased  Amanda,  namely,  that  Howel  was  the  young  clergyman 
Emily  was  attached  to.  He  had  gone  to  London  on  a visit  to 
the  gentleman  who  patronized  him.  Her  youth,  her  simplicity, 
above  all,  her  distress,  affected  his  heart ; andjn  the  hope  of 
mitigating  that  distress  (which  he  was  shocked  to  see  had  been 
aggravated  by  the  ladies  she  came  to),  he  had  followed  her. 
To  soothe  the  wretched,  to  relieve  the  distressed,  was  not  con- 
sidered more  a duty  than  a pleasure  by  Howel.  And  the  little 
favors  he  conferred  upon  the  Rushbrooks  afforded,  if  possible, 
more  pleasure  to  him  than  they  did  to  them  ; so  sweet  are  the 
feelings  of  benevolence  and  virtue.  But  compassion  was  not 
long  the  sole  motive  of  his  interest  in  their  affairs — ^the  amiable 
manners,  the  gentle  conversation  of  Emily,  completely  subdued 
his  unfortunate  passion  for  Amanda,  and  in  stealing  her  image 
from  his  heart  she  implanted  her  own  in  its  place.  He  de- 
scribed, in  a romantic  manner,  the  little  rural  cottage  he  invited 
her  to  share  ; he  anticipated  the  happy  period  when  it  should 
become  an  asylum  to  her  parents  ; when  he,  like  a second 
father,  should  assist  their  children  through  the  devious  paths 
of  life.  These  fond  hopes  and  expectations  vanished  the  mo 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


572 

ment  he  received  Mrs.  Conners  letter.  He  could  not  think  of 
sacrificing  the  interest  of  Rushbrook  to  the  consideration  of  his 
own  happiness,  and  therefore  generously,  but  with  the  most 
agonizing  conflicts,  resigned  his  Emily  to  a more  prosperous 
riv?il.  His  joy  at  finding  her  disengaged,  still  his  own  unaltered 
Emily,  can  better  be  conceived  than  described.  He  pointed 
out  the  little  sheltered  cottage  which  again  he  hoped  she  would 
share,  and  blessed,  with  her,  the  hand  that  had  opened  her 
father’s  prison  gates.  Lord  and  Lady  Cherbury  were  delighted 
to  think  they  could  contribute  to  the  felicity  of  two  such  amia- 
ble beings  ; and  the  latter  wrote  to  Captain  and  Mrs.  Rushbrook 
on  the  subject,  who  immediately  replied  to  her  letter,  declaring 
that  their  fondest  wish  would  be  gratified  in  bestowing  their 
daughter  on  Howel.  They  were  accordingly  invited  to  the  Hall, 
and  in  the  same  spot  where  a month  before  he  ratified  the  vows 
of  Lord  Cherbury  and  Amanda,  did  Howel  plight  his  own  to 
Emily,  who  from  the  hand  of  Lady  Cherbury  received  a nuptial 
present  sufficient  to  procure  every  enjoyment  her  humble  and 
unassuming  spirit  aspired  to.  Her  parents,  after  passing  a few 
days  in  her  cottage,  dej^arted,  rejoicing  at  the  happiness  of  their 
beloved  child,  and  truly  grateful  to  those  who  had  contributed 
to  it. 

And  now  did  the  grateful  children  of  Fitzalan  amply  reward 
the  Edwins  for  their  past  kindnesses  to  their  parents  and  them- 
selves, An  annual  stipend  was  settled  on  Edwin  by  Lord  Dun- 
reath,  and  the  possessions  of  Ellen  were  enlarged  by  Amanda. 
Now  was  realized  every  scheme  of  domestic  happiness  she  had 
ever  formed;  but  even  that  happiness  could  not  alleviate  her 
feelings  on  Oscar’s  account,  whose  faded  cheek,  whose  languid 
eye,  whose  total  abstraction  in  the  midst  of  company,  evidently 
proved  the  state  of  his  heart ; and  the  tear  of  regret,  which  had 
BO  often  fallen  for  her  own  sorrows,  was  now  shed  for  his.  He 
had  written  to  Mrs.  Marlowe  a particular  account  of  everything 
which  had  befallen  him  since  their  separation.  She  answered 
his  letter  immediately,  and,  after  congratulating  him  in  the 
Warmest  terms  on  the  change  in  his  situation,  informed  him  that 
Adela  was  then  at  one  of  Eelgrave’s  seats  in  England,  and  that 
he  was  gone  to  the  continent.  Her  style  was  melancholy,  and 
she  concluded  her  letter  in  these  words  : No  longer,  my  dear 
Oscar,  is  my  fireside  enlivened  by  gayety  or  friendship  ; sad  and 
solitary  I sit  within  my  cottage  till  my  heart  sickens  at  the  re* 
Wiembrance  of  past  scenes,  and  if  I wander  from  it,  the  objects 
vdthout,  if  possible,  add  to  the  bitterness  of  that  remembrance. 
The  closed  windows,  the  grass-grown  paths,  the  dejected  ser- 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


573 


rants  of  Woodlawn,  all  recall  to  my  mind  those  hours  when  it 
was  the  mansion  of  hospitality  and  pleasure.  I often  linger  by 
the  grave  of  the  general ; my  tears  fall  upon  it,  and  I think  of 
that  period  when,  like  him,  I shall  drop  into  it.  But  my  last 
hours  will  not  close  like  his  ; no  tender  child  will  bend  over  my 
pillow,  to  catch  my  last  sigh,  to  s^)othe  my  last  pang.  In  vain 
my  closing  eyes  will  look  for  the  pious  drops  of  nature,  or  of 
friendship.  Unfriended  I shall  die,  with  the  sad  consciousness 
of  doing  so  through  my  own  means  ; but  I shall  not  be  quite 
unmourned.  You,  and  my  Adela,  the  sweet  daughter  of  my 
care,  will  regret  the  being  whose  affection,  whose  sympathy  for 
you  both,  can  only  be  obliterated  with  life.” 


CHAPTER  LVIII. 

“ The  modest  virtues  mingled  in  her  eyes. 

Still  on  the  ground  dejected,  darting  all 
Their  humid  beams  into  the  opening  flowers  s 
Or  when  she  thought — 

Of  what  her  faithless  fortune  promised  once, 

They,  like  the  dewy  star 

Of  evening,  shone  in  tears.” — Thomson. 

Adela,  on  the  death  of  her  father,  was  taken  by  Belgrave 
to  England,  though  the  only  pleasure  he  experienced  in  re- 
moving her  was  derived  from  the  idea  of  wounding  her  feelings, 
by  separating  her  from  Mrs.  Marlowe,  whom  he  knew  she  was 
tenderly  attached  to.  From  his  connections  in  London,  she 
was  compelled  to  mix  in  society — compelled,  I say,  for  the  naB 
ural  gayety  of  her  soul  was  quite  gone,  and  that  solitude,  which 
permitted  her  to  brood  over  the  remembrance  of  past  days, 
was  the  only  happiness  she  was  capable  of  enjoying.  When 
the  terrors  of  Belgrave  drove  him  from  the  kingdom,  he  had 
her  removed  to  Woodhouse,  to  which,  it  may  be  remembered, 
he  had  once  brought  Amanda,  and  from  which  the  imperious 
woman  who  then  ruled  was  removed  ; but  the  principal  domestic 
was  equally  harsh  and  insolent  in  her  manner,  and  to  her  care 
the  unfortunate  Adela  was  consigned,  with  strict  orders  that  she 
should  not  be  allowed  to  receive  any  company,  or  correspond 
with  any  being.  Accustomed  from  her  earliest  youth  to  the 
greatest  tenderness,  this  severity  plunged  her  in  the  deepest 
despondency,  and  life  was  a burden  she  would  gladly  have 
resigned.  Her  melancholy,  or  rather  her  patient  sweetness,  at 


S74 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.^ 


least  softened  the  flinty  nature  of  her  governante,  and  she  was 
permitted  to  extend  her  walks  beyond  the  gardens,  to  which 
they  had  hitherto  been  confined  ; but  she  availed  herself  of  this 
permission  only  to  visit  the  church-yard  belonging  to  the  hamlet, 
whose  old  yew-trees  she  had  often  seen  waving  from  the  windows. 
Beneath  their  solemn  gloom  she  loved  to  sit,  while  evening 
closed  around  her ; and  in  a spot  sequestered  from  every  human 
eye,  weep  over  the  recollection  of  that  father  she  had  lost,  that 
friend  she  was  separated  from.  She  remained  in  the  church-yard 
one  night  beyond  her  usual  hour.  The  soft  beams  of  the  moon 
alone  prevented  her  from  being  involved  in  darkness,  and  the 
plaintive  breathings  of  a flute  from  the  hamlet  just  stole  upon 
her  ear.  Lost  in  sadness,  her  head  resting  upon  her  hand,  she 
forgot  the  progress  of  time,  vdien  suddenly  she  behold  a form 
rising  from  ^ neighboring  grave.  She  started  up,  screamed,  but 
had  no  power  to  move'.  The  form  advanced  to  her.  It  was 
the  figure  of  a venerable  man,  who  gently  exclaimed,  “ Be  not 
afraid  ! ’’  His  voice  dissipated  the  involuntary  fears  of  Adela  : 
but  still  she  trembled  so  much  she  could  not  move.  “ I 
thought,’’  cried  he,  gazing  on  her,  “ this  place  had  been  alone 
the  haunt  of  wretchedness  and  me.”  If  sacred  to  sorrow,” 
exclaimed  Adela,  I well  may  claim  the  privilege  of  entering  it.” 
She  spoke  involuntarily,  and  her  words  seemed  to  affect  the 
stranger  deeply.  So  young,”  said  he ; ‘‘  it  is  melancholy, 
indeed ; but  still  the  sorrows  of  youth  are  more  bearable  than 
those  of  age,  because,  like  age  it  has  not  outlived  the  fond  ties, 
the  sweet  connections  of  life.”  “ Alas  ! ” cried  Adela  unable  to 
repress  her  feelings,  “ I am  separated  from  all  I regarded.”  The 
stranger  leaned  pensively  against  a tree  for  a few  minutes,  and 
then  again  addressed  her:  ‘‘  ’Tis  a late  hour,”  said  he;  ‘‘ suL 
fer  me  to  conduct  you  home,  and  also  permit  me  to  ask  if  1 
may  see  you  here  to-morrow  night  ? Your  youth,  your  manner, 
your  dejection,  all  interest  me  deeply.  The  sorrows  of  youth 
are  often  increased  by  imagination.  You  will  say  that  nothing 
can  exceed  its  pains ; ’tis  true,  but  it  is  a weakness  to  yield  to 
them — a weakness  which,  from  a sensible  mind,  will  be  eradi- 
cated the  moment  it  hears  of  the  real  calamities  of  life.  Such 
a relation  I can  give  you  if  you  meet  me  to-morrow  night  in  this 
sad,  this  solitary  spot — a spot  I have  visited  every  closing  even- 
ing, without  ever  before  meeting  a being  in  it.” 

His  venerable  looks,  his  gentle,  his  pathetic  manner,  affected 
Adela  inexpressibly.  She  gazed  on  him  with  emotions  some- 
what similar  to  those  with  which  she  used  to  contemplate  the 
mild  features  of  her  father,  I will  meet  you,”  cried  she,  but 


THE  CHILDREH  OF  THE  ABBEY 


S7S 

my  sorrows  are  not  imaginary/’  She  refused  to  let  him  attend 
her  home ; and  in  this  incident  there  was  something  affecting 
and  romantic,  which  soothed  and  engrossed  the  mind.  She 
was  punctual  the  next  evening  to  the  appointed  hour.  The 
stranger  was  already  in  the  church-yard.  He  seated  her  at  the 
head  of  the  grave  from  which  she  had  seen  him  rise  the  preced- 
ing night,  and  which  was  only  distinguished  from  the  others  by 
a few  flowering  shrubs  planted  round  it,  and  began  his  promised 
narrative.  He  had  not  proceeded  far  ere  Adela  began  to 
tremble  with  emotion — as  he  continued  it  increased.  At  last, 
suddenly  catching  his  hand  with  wildness,  she  exclaimed,  ‘‘  She 
lives — the  wife  so  bitterly  lamented  still  lives,  a solitary  mourner 
for  your  sake.  Oh,  never ! never  did  she  injure  you  as  you 
suppose.  Oh,  dear,  inestimable  Mrs.  Marlowe,  what  happiness 
to  the  child  of  your  care,  to  think  that  through  her  means  you 
will  regain  the  being  you  have  so  tenderly  regretted — regain 
him  with  a heart  open  to  receive  you.”  The  deep  convulsive 
sobs  of  her  companion  now  pierced  her  ear.-  For  many  minutes 
he  was  unable  to  speak — at  last,  raising  his  eyes,  “ Oh,  Provi- 
dence ! I thank  Thee,”  he  exclaimed ; “ again  shall  my  arms 
fold  to  my  heart  its  best  beloved  object.  Oh,  my  Fanny,  how 
have  I injured  thee  ! Learn  from  me,”  he  continued,  turning 
to  Adela,  oh  ! learn  from  me  never  to  yield  to  rashness,  riad 
I allowed  myself  time  to  inquire  into  the  particulars  of  my 
wife’s  conduct ; had  I resisted,  instead  of  obeying,  the  violence 
of  passion,  what  years  of  lingering  misery  should  I have  saved 
us  both  ! But  tell  me  where  I shall  find  my  solitary  mourner, 
as  you  call  her  ? ” Adela  gave  him  the  desired  information, 
and  also  told  him  her  own  sitnation.  “ The  wife  of  Belgrave  ! ” 
he  repeated  ; “ then  I wonder  not,”  continued  he,  as  if  involun- 
tarily, at  your  sorrows.”  It  was,  indeed,  to  Flowel,  the  un- 
fortunate father  of  Juliana,  the  regretted  husband  of  Mrs.  Man 
lowe,  that  Adela  had  been  addressing  herself.  He  checked 
himself,  however,  and  told  her  that  the  being,  by  whose  grave 
they  sat,  had  been  hurried,  through  the  villany  of  Belgrave,  to 
that  grave.  Adela  told  him  of  the  prohibition  against  her  writing ; 
but  at  the  same  time  assured  him,  ere  the  following  night,  she 
would  find  an  opportunity  of  writing  a letter,  which  he  should 
bring  to  Mrs.  Marlowe,  who  by  its  contents  would  be  prepared 
for  his  appearance,  as  it  was  to  be  sent  in  to  her.  But  Adela 
was  prevented  from  putting  her  intention  into  execution  by  an 
ijvent  as  solemn  as  unexpected. 

The  ensuing  morning  she  was  disturbed  from  her  sleep  by  a 
violent  noise  in  the  house,  as  of  people  running  backwards  and 


576  THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

forwards  in  confusion  and  distress.  She  was  hurrying  on  her 
clothes  to  go  and  inquire  into  the  occasion  of  it,  when  a servant 
rushed  into  the  room,  and  in  a hasty  manner  told  her  that 
Colonel  Belgrave  was  dead.  Struck  with  horror  and  amaze- 
ment, Adela  stood  petrified,  gazing  on  her.  The  maid  repeated 
her  words,  and  added  that  he  had  died  abroad,  and  his 
remains  were  brought  over  to  Woodhouse  for  interment,  attended 
by  a French  gentleman,  who  looked  like  a priest.  The  various 
emotions  which  assailed  the  heart  of  Adela  at  this  moment  were 
too  much  for  her  weak  frame,  and  she  would  have  fallen  to  the 
floor  but  for  the  maid.  It  was  some  time  ere  she  recovered  her 
sensibility,  and  when  she  did  regain  it,  she  was  still  so  agitated 
as  to  be  unable  to  give  those  directions,  which  the  domestics,  who 
now  looked  up  to  her  in  a light  very  different  from  they  had 
hitherto  done,  demanded  from  her.  All  she  could  desire  was 
that  the  steward  should  pay  every  respect  and  attention  to  the 
gentleman  who  had  attended  the  remains  of  his  master,  and  have 
every  honor  that  was  due  shown  to  those  remains.  To  suppose 
she  regretted  Belgrave  would  be  unnatural ; but  she  felt  horror, 
mingled  with  a degree  of  pity,  for  his  untimely  fate  at  the 
idea  of  his  dying  abroad,  without  one  connection,  one  friend 
near  him.  His  last  moments  were  indeed  more  wretched  than 
she  could  conceive.  Overwhelmed  with  terror  and  grief,  he 
had  quitted  England  — terror  at  the  supposition  of  a crime 
which  in  reality  he  had  not  committed,  and  grief  for  the  fate  of 
Amanda.  He  sought  to  lose  his  horrors  in  inebriety  ; but  this, 
joined  to  the  agitations  of  his  mind,  brought  on  a violent  fever 
by  the  time  he  had  landed  at  Calais,  in  the  paroxysms  of  which, 
had  the  attendants  understood  his  language,  they  would  have 
been  shocked  at  the  crimes  he  revealed.  His  senses  were  re-, 
stored  a short  time  before  he  died  ; but  what  excruciating 
anguish,  as  well  as  horror,  did  he  suffer  from  their  restoration  ! 
Fie  knew  from  his  own  feelings,  as  well  as  from  the  looks  of  his 
attendants,  that  his  last  moments  were  approaching ; and  the 
recollection  of  past  actions  made  him  shudder  at  those  moments. 
Oh,  Howel  ! now  were  you  amply  avenged  for  all  the  pangs  he 
made  you  suffer.  Now  did  the  pale  image  of  your  shrouded 
Juliana  seem  to  stand  beside  his  bed  reproaching  his  barbarity. 
Every  treacherous  action  now  rose  to  view,  and,  trembling,  he 
groaned  with  terror  at  the  spectres  which  a guilty  conscience 
raised  around  him.  Death  would  have  been  a release,  could 
he  have  considered  it  an  annihilation  of  all  existence  ; but  that 
future  world  he  had  always  derided,  that  world  was  opening  in 
all  its  awful  horrors  to  his  view\  Already  he  saw  himself  be- 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


577 

fore  its  sacred  Judge,  surrounded  by  the  accusing  spirits  of 
those  he  had  injured.  He  desired  a clergyman  to  be  brought 
to  him.  A priest  was  sent  for.  Their  faiths  were  different, 
but  still,  as  a man  of  God,  Belgrave  applied  to  him  for  an 
alleviation  of  his  tortures.  The  priest  was  superstitious,  and 
I ere  he  tried  to  comfort  he  wished  to  convert;  but  scarcely  had 
I he  commenced  the  attempt  ere  the  wretched  being  before  him 
, clasped  his  hands  together,  in  a strong  convulsion,  and  ex- 
1 pired.  The  English  servant  who  attended  Belgrave  informed 
1 the  people  of  the  hotel  of  his  rank  and  fortune,  and  the  priest 
^ offered  to  accompany  his  remains  to  'England.  He  was,  by 
' the  direction  of  Adela,  who  had  not  resolution  to  see  him, 
amply  rewarded  for  his  attention:  and  in  two  days  after  their 
" arrival  at  Woodhouse,  the  remains  of  Belgrave  were  con- 
signed to  their  kindred  earth.  Erom  a sequestered  corner  of 
; the  church-yard  Howel  witnessed  his  interment.  When  all 
had  departed,  he  approached  the  grave  of  his  daughter — He 
. is  gone  he  exclaimed;  ^^my  Juliana,  your  betrayer  is  gone; 
at  the  tribunal  of  his  God  he  now  answers  for  his  cruelty  to 
^you.  But,  oh  I may  he  find  mercy  from  that  God;  may  He 
^ pardon  him,  as  in  this  solemn  moment  I have  done — my 
enmity  lives  not  beyond  the  grave. 

Adela  now  sent  for  Howel;  and,  after  their  first  emotions 
had  subsided,  informed  him  she  meant  immediately  to  return 
^ to  Ireland.  The  expectation  of  her  doing  so  had  alone  pre- 
vented his  going  before.  They  accordingly  commenced  their 
i journey  the  ensuing  day,  and  in  less  than  a week  reached  the 
i dear  and  destined  spot  so  interesting  to  both.  They  had  pre- 
^ viously  settled  on  the  manner  in  which  the  discovery  should 
' be  revealed  to  Mrs.  Marlowe,  and  Adela  went  alone  into  her 
cottage.  Sad  and  solitary,  as  Mrs.  Marlowe  said  in  her  letter 
to  Oscar,  did  Adela  find  her  parlor:  but  it  was  a sadness 
which  vanished  the  moment  "she  beheld  her.  With  all  the 
tenderness  of  a mother  she  clasped  Adela  to  her  breast,  and, 
in  the  sudden  transports  of  joy  and  surprise,  for  many 
minutes  did  not  notice  her  dress;  but  when  she  did  observe 
it,  what  powerful  emotions  did  it  excite  in  her  breast ! Adela, 
scarcely  less  agitated  than  she  was,  could  not  for  many  min- 
utes relate  all  that  had  happened.  At  last  the  idea  of  the 
. state  in  which  she  had  left  Howel  made  her  endeavor  to  com- 
! pose  herself.  Mrs.  Marlowe  wept  while  she  related  her  suffer- 
i ings;  but  when  she  mentioned  Howel,  surprise  suspended  her 
[tears — a surprise,  increased  when  she  began  the  story;  but 
"when  she  came  to  that  .part  where  she  herself  had  betrayed 


578 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


such  emotion  while  listening  to  Howel,  Mrs.  Marlow  started 
and  turned  pale.  Your  feelings  are  similar  to  mine/^  said 
Adela;  ^^at  this  period  I became  agitated.  Yes/^  she  con- 
tinued, it  was  at  this  period  I laid  my  trembling  hand  on 
his,  and  exclaimed,  she  lives!  Merciful  heaven!  cried 
Mrs.  Marlowe,  ^''what  do  you  mean?^'  ^^Oh,  let  me  now,^^ 
cried  Adela,  clasping  her  arms  round  her,  repeat  to  you  the 
same  expression.  He  lives!  that  husband,  so  beloved  and  re- 
gretted, lives!  ^^Oh,  bring  him  to  me!^^  said  Mrs.  Marlowe, 
in  a faint  voice;  ^Het  me  behold  him  while  I have  reason  my- 
self to  enjoy  the  blessing. Adela  flew  from  the  room.  Howel 
was  near  the  door.  He  approached,  he  entered  the  room,  he 
tottered  forward,  and  in  one  moment  was  at  the  feet  and  in  the 
arms  of  his  wife,  who,  transflxed  to  the  chair,  could  only  open 
her  arms  to  receive  him.  The  mingled  pain  and  pleasure  of 
such  a reunion,  cannot  be  described.  Both,  with  tears  of 
grateful  transport,  blessed  the  Power  which  had  given  such 
comfort  to  their  closing  days.  But,  my  children,  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Marlowe,  suddenly,  ^^ah!  when  shall  I behold  my  child- 
ren? Why  did  not  they  accompany  you?  Ah!  did  they  deem 
me  then  unworthy  of  bestowing  a mother^s  blessing?^^  Howel 
trembled  and  turned  pale.  I said  Mrs.  Marlowe,  inter- 
preting his  emotion,  I am  a wife,  but  not  a mother.  Howel, 
recovering  his  fortitude,  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it  to  his 
bosom.  Yes,""^  he  replied,  ^^you  are  a mother;  one  dear,  one 
amiable  child  remains.  Heaven  be  praised!  He  paused  and  a 
tear  fell  to  the  memory  of  J uliana.  ^ ^ But  Heaven,  he  resumed, 
has  taken  the  other  to  its  eternal  rest.  Inquire  not  concern-, 
ing  her  at  present,  I entreat;  soon  I will  conduct  you  to  the 
grave;  there  will  I relate  her  faith,  and  together  will  we  mourn 
it.  Then  shall  the  tears  that  never  yet  bedewed  her  grave,  the 
precious  tears  of  a mother,  embalm  her  sacred  dust.^^  Mrs. 
Marlowe  wept,  but  she  complied  with  her  husband^s  request. 
She  inquired,  in  a broken  voice,  about  her  son,  and  the  knowl- 
edge of  his  happiness  gradually  cheered  her  mind. 

Adela  consented  to  stay  that  night  in  the  cottage;  but  the 
next  day  she  determined  on  going  to  Woodlawn.  To  think 
she  should  again  wander  through  it,  again  linger  in  the  walks 
she  had  trodden  with  those  she  loved,  gave  to  her  mind  a mel- 
ancholy pleasure.  The  next  morning,  attended  by  her  friend, 
she  repaired  to  it,  and  was  inexpressibly  affected  by  reviewing 
scenes  endeared  by  the  tender  remembrance  of  happier  hours. 
The  house,  from  its  closed  windows,  appeared  quite  neglected 
and  melancholy,  as  if  pleasure  had  forsaken  it  with  the  poor 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


579 


departed  general.  Standard,  his  favorite  horse,  grazed  in  the 
lawn;  and  beside  him,  as  if  a secret  sympathy  endeared  them 
to  each  other,  stood  the  dog  that  had  always  attended  the 
general  in  his  walks.  It  instantly  recollected  Adela,  and  run- 
ning to  her  licked  her  hand,  and  evinced  the  utmost  joy.  She 
patted  him  on  the  head,  while  her  tears  burst  forth  at  the  idea 
of  him  who  had  been  his  master.  The  transports  of  the  old 
domestics,  particularly  of  the  gray-headed  butler,  at  her  unex- 
pected return,  increased  her  tears.  But  when  she  entered  the 
parlor,  in  which  her  father  usually  sat,  she  was  quite  overcome, 
and  motioning  with  her  hand  for  her  friends  not  to  mind  her, 
she  retired  to  the  garden.  There  was  a little  romantic  root- 
house  at  the  termination  of  it,  where  she  and  Oscar  had  passed 
many  happy  hours  together.  Thither  she  repaired,  and  his  idea, 
thus  revived  in  her  mind,  did  not  lessen  its  dejection.  While 
she  sat  within  it  indulging  her  sorrow,  her  eye  caught  some 
lines  inscribed  on  one  of  its  windows.  She  hastily  arose,  and 
examining  them,  instantly  recollected  the  hand  of  Oscar. 
They  were  as  follows: — 

‘‘  Adieu,  sweet  girl,  a last  adieu! 

We  part  to  meet  no  more; 

Adieu  to  peace,  to  hope,  to  you. 

And  to  my  native  shore. 

“ If  fortune  had  propitious  smiled, 

My  love  had  made  me  blest; 

But  she,  like  me,  is  Sorrow's  child. 

By  sadness  dire  opprest. 

I go  to  India’s  sultry  clime, 

Oh!  never  to  return; 

Beneath  some  lone  embowering  lime 
Will  he  thy  soldier’s  urn. 

No  kindred  spirit  there  shall  weep, 

Or,  pensive  musing  stray; 

My  image  thou  alone  wilt  keep. 

And  Griefs  soft  tribute  pay.’' 

Oscar,  previous  to  his  going  to  England,  with  the  expecta- 
tion of  being  sent  to  the  West  Indies,  had  paid  a secret  visit  to 
Woodlawn,  to  review  and  bid  adieu  to  every  well-known  and 
beloved  spot,  and  had  one  morning  at  early  day,  inscribed 
these  lines  on  a window  in  the  root-house,  prompted  by  a 
tender  melancholy  he  could  not  resist. 

His  love  is  then  unfortunate,^^  said  Adela,  pensively,  lean- 
ing her  head  upon  her  hand.  ^^Oh^  Oscar!  how  sad  a simili- 


580 


THE  CHILDEEN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


tilde  is  there  between  your  fate  and  mine  ! She  returned  to 
the  house.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Howel  (for  so  we  shall  in  future  call 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Marlowe^  that  name  being  only  assumed  while 
her  husband  had  a prospect  of  inheriting  his  uncle^s  fortune) 
had  consented  to  stay  some  time  svith  her.  Oscar^s  lines  ran 
in  her  head  the  whole  day;  and  in  the  evening  she  again  stole 
out  to  read  them. 

She  had  been  absent  some  time,  when  Mrs.  Howel  came 
out  to  her.  Adela  blushed  and  started  at  being  caught  at  the 
window.  ^Tis  a long  time,  my  dear  Adela, said  Mrs.  Howel, 
since  we  had  a ramble  in  this  delightful  garden  together. 
Indulge  me  in  taking  one,  and  let  us  talk  of  past  times. 

Past  times, cried  Adela,  with  a faint  smile,  are  not  always 
the  pleasantest  to  talk  about.  There  are  some,  at  least  one 
friend,^^  cried  Mrs.  Howel,  whom  you  have  not  yet  inquired 
after. Adela^s  heart  suddenly  palpitated;  she  guessed  who 
that  one  friend  was.  Oscar  Fitzalan,  surely, continued  Mrs. 
Howel,  merits  an  inquiry.  I have  good  news  to  tell  you  of 
him;  therefore,  without  chiding  you  for  any  seeming  neglect,  I 
will  reveal  it.^^  She  accordingly  related  his  late  reverse  of  sit- 
uation. Adela  heard  her  with  deep  attention.  ^ ^ Since  fortune, 
then,  is  propitious  at  last,^""  cried  she,  ^^his  love  will  no  longer 
be  unfortunate.''''  ^^^Tis  time,  indeed, said  Mrs.  Howel,  look- 
ing at  her  with  pleasure,  ^^that  love,  so  pure,  so  constant  as 
his,  should  be  rewarded.  Oh!  Adela, ^''  she  continued,  suddenly 
taking  her  hand,  sweet  daughter  of  my  care,  how  great  is  my 
happiness  at  this  moment,  to  think  of  that  about  to  be  your 
portion.^^  My  happiness!  exclaimed  Adela,  in  a dejected 
voice.  Yes,^"  replied  Mrs.  Howel,  in  your  union  with  a man 
every  way  worthy  of  possessing  you;  a man  who,  from  the  first 
moment  he  beheld  you,  has  never  ceased  to  love — in  short,  with 
Oscar  Fitzalan  himself."^  Impossible! cried  Adela,  trem- 
bling with  emotion  as  she  spoke.  Did  not — how  humiliating 

is  the  remembrance — did  not  Oscar  Fitzalan  reject  me,  when 
the  too  generous  and  romantic  spirit  of  my  beloved  father 
offered  my  hand  to  his  acceptance?"^  ^^For  once,""  said  Mrs. 
Howel,  ^^I  must  disturb  the  sacred  ashes  of  the  dead  to  pre- 
vent the  innocent  from  being  unhappy.  Oh!  Adela,  you  were 
cruelly  deceived,  and  the  moment  which  gave  you  to  Belgrave, 
rendered  Oscar  the  most  wretched  of  mankind.  My  heart  was 
the  repository  of  all  his  griefs,  and  how  many  are  the  bitter 
tears  I have  shed  over  them!  Be  composed,""  continued  she, 
seeing  AdeWs  agitation,  ‘'^and  a few  moments  will  explain 
everything  to  you.""  She  then  led  her  back  to  the  root-house. 


TEE  OHILDBEN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


581 


and  in  a most  explicit  manner  informed  her  of  Belgrave^s 
treachery.  Adela  burst  into  tears  as  she  concluded.  She  wept 
on  Mrs.  Howehs  bosom^  and  acknowledged  she  had  removed  a 
weight  of  uneasiness  from  her  mind.  Poor  Oscar!  she  con- 
tinued, ^^how  much  would  the  knowledge  of  his  misery  have 
aggravated  mine  I ^^He  acted  nobly/^  said  Mrs.  Howel, 
^^in  concealing  it;  and  amply  will  he  be  rewarded  for  such 
conduct.  She  then  proceeded  to  inform  Adela  that  she 
soon  expected  a visit  from  him.  There  was  something  in  her 
look  and  manner  which  instantly  excited  the  suspicion  of 
Adela,  who,  blushing,  starting,  trembling,  exclaimed — ^^He 
is  already  come  1 Mrs.  Howel  smiled  and  a tear  fell  from 
her  upon  the  soft  hand  of  Adela.  ^‘^He  is  already  come,^^ 
she  repeated,  ^^and  he  waits,  oh  ! how  impatiently,  to  behold 
his  Adela. 

We  may  believe  his  patience  was  not  put  to  a much  longer 
test.  But  when  Adela  in  reality  beheld  him  as  she  entered 
the  parlor  where  she  had  left  Mr.  Howel,  and  where  he  waited 
for  the  reappearance  of  her  friend,  she  sunk  beneath  he  remo- 
tion, upon  that  faithful  bosom  which  had  so  long  suffered  the 
most  excruciating  pangs  on  her  account ; and  it  was  many 
minutes  ere  she  was  sensible  of  the  soft  voice  of  Oscar.  Oh  ! 
who  shall  paint  his  transports,  after  all  his  sufferings,  to  be 
thus  rewarded  ! But  in  the  midst  of  his  happiness,  the^'idea 
of  the  poor  general,  who  had  so  generously  planned  it,  struck 
upon  his  heart  with  a pang  of  sorrow.  Oh,  my  Adela  ! he 
cried,  clasping  her  to  his  heart,  as  if  doubly  endeared  by  the 
remembrance,  is  Oscar  at  last  permitted  to  pour  forth  the 
fulness  of  his  soul  before  you,  to  reveal  its  tenderness,  to  in- 
dulge the  hope  of  calling  you  his — a hope  which  affords  the 
delightful  prospect  of  being  able  to  contribute  to  your 
felicity  Yes,  most  generous  of  friends  I’’  he  exclaimed, 

raising  his  eyes  to  a picture  of  the  general,  will  endeavor 
to  evince  my  gratitude  to  you  by  my  conduct  to  your  child. 
Oh!  how  did  the  tear  he  shed  to  the  memory  of  her  father  in- 
terest the  heart  of  Adela ! her  own  fell  with  it,  and  she  felt 
that  the  presence  of  that  being  to  whom  they  were  conse- 
crated was  alone  wanting  to  complete  their  happiness.  It 
was  long  ere  she  was  sufficiently  composed  to  inquire  the  rea- 
son of  Oscar^s  sudden  appearance,  and  still  longer  ere  he  could 
inform  her.  Mrs.  Marlowe^s  melancholy  letter,  he  at  last 
said,  had  brought  him  over,  with  the  hope  of  being  able  to 
cheer  her  solitude,  and  also,  he  acknowledged,  his  own  dejec- 
tion, by  mutual  sympathy;  from  her  cottage  he  had  been 


582 


THE  milLDUEN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


directed  to  Woodlawn^  and  at  Woodlawn  received  particulars, 
not  only  of  her  happiness,  but  his  own.  Adela,  who  had 
never  yet  deviated  from  propriety,  would  not  now  infringe  it, 
and  resolutely  determined,  till  the  expiration  of  her  mourn- 
ing, not  to  bestow  her  hand  on  Oscar ; but  permitted  him  to 
hope  that  in  the  intervening  space,  most  of  his  time  might 
be  devoted  to  her.  It  was  necessary,  however,  to  sanction 
that  hope  by  having  proper  society.  She  could  not  flatter 
herself  with  much  longer  retaining  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Howel,  as 
the  latter  particularly  was  impatient  to  behold  her  son. 
Oscar  therefore  requested,  and  obtained  permission  from 
Adela,  to  write  in  her  name  to  Lord  and  Lady  Cherbury,  and 
entreat  their  company  at  Woodlawn  promising  she  would  then 
accompany  them  to  Castle  Carberry,  and  from  thence  to  Dun- 
reath  Abbey,  a tour  which,  previous  to  Oscar^s  leaving  Wales, 
had  been  agreed  on.  The  invitation  was  accepted,  and  in  a 
few  days  Oscar  beheld  the  two  beings  most  valued  by  him  in 
the  world  introduced  to  each  other.  Tears  of  rapture  started 
to  his  eyes  as  he  saw  his  Adela  folded  to  the  bosom  of  his 
lovely  sister,  who  called  her  the  sweet  restorer  of  her  brother's 
happiness  ! Lord  Cherbery  was  already  acquainted  with  her, 
and,  next  to  his  Amanda,  considered  her  the  loveliest  of  hu- 
man beings  ; and  Lady  Martha  and  Lady  Arminta,  who  were 
also  invited  to  Woodlawn,  regarded  her  in  the  same  light.  A 
few  days  after  their  arrival  Mrs.  Howel  prepared  for  her  de- 
parture. Adela,  who  considered  her  as  a second  mother, 
could  not  behold  those  preparations  without  tears  of  real  regret. 

Oh,  my  Adela  she  exclaimed,  these  tears  flatter,  yet 
distress  me.  I am  pleased  to  think  the  child  of  my  care 
regards  me  with  such  affection,  but  I am  hurt  to  think  she 
should  consider  my  loss  such  an  affliction.  Oh,  my  child  ! 
may  the  endearments  of  the  friends  who  surround  you  steal 
from  you  all  painful  remembrances ! nature  calls  me  from 
you  ; I sigh  to  behold  my  child  ; I sigh,^^  she  continued,  with 
eyes  suffused  in  tears,  ^^to  behold  the  precious  earth  which 
holds  another. 

About  three  weeks  after  her  departure  the  whole  party  pro- 
ceeded to  Castle  Carberry.  Amanda  could  not  re-enter  it  with- 
out emotions  of  the  most  painful  nature.  She  recollected  the 
moment  in  which  she  had  quitted  it,  oppressed  with  sorrow  and 
sickness,  and  to  attend  the  closing  period  of  a father^s  life. 
She  wept,  sighed  to  think,  that  the  happiness  he  had  prayed 
for  he  could  not  behold.  Lord  Cherbury  saw  her  emotions,  and 
soothed  them  with  the  softest  tenderness  ; it  was  due  to  that 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


583 


tenderness  to  conquer  her  dejection^  and  in  future  the  remem- 
brance of  her  father  was  only  attended  with  a pleasing  melan- 
choly. She  did  not  delay  visiting  the  convent.  The  good 
natured  nuns  crowded  around  her,  and  cried,  laughed,  and 
wished  her  joy,  almost  in  the  same  moment ; particularly  Sis- 
ter Mary.  The  prioresses  pleasure  was  of  a less  violent,  but 
more  affecting  nature.  An  almost  constant  scene  of  gayety  was 
kept  up  at  the  Castle,  a gayety,  however,  which  did  not  prevent 
Lord  and  Lady  Cherbury  from  inspecting  into  the  situation  of 
their  poor  tenants,  whose  wants  they  relieved,  whose  grievances 
they  redressed,  and  whose  hearts  they  cheered,  by  a promise 
of  spending  some  months  in  every  year  at  the  Castle.  After 
continuing  at  it  six  weeks,  they  crossed  over  to  Port-Patrick, 
and  from  thence  proceeded  to  Dunreath  Abbey,  which  had 
been  completely  repaired,  and  furnished  in  a style  equally 
modern  and  elegant;  and  here  it  was  determined  they  should 
remain  till  the  solemnization  of  Lord  Dunreath^s  nuptials.  The 
time  which  intervened  till  the  period  appointed  for  them  was 
agreeably  diversified  by  parties  amongst  the  neighboring 
families,  and  excursions  about  the  country ; but  no  hours  were 
happier  than  those  which  the  inhabitants  of  the  Abbey  passed 
when  free  from  company,  so  truly  were  they  united  to  each 
other  by  affection.  Lord  Dunreath,  soon  after  his  return, 
waited  upon  the  Marquis  of  Koslin,  and  by  his  sister^s  desire, 
signified  to  him  that  if  a visit  from  her  would  be  agreeable  to 
the  marquis  she  would  pay  it.  This,  however,  was  declined ; 
and  about  the  same  period  Lady  Dunreath  died.  Mrs.  Bruce, 
whom  from  long  habit  she  was  attached  to,  then  retired  to 
another  part  of  Scotland,  ashamed  to  remain  where  her  con- 
duct was  known — a conduct  which  deeply  affected  her  niece, 
whom  Amanda  visited  immediately  after  her  arrival,  and  found 
settled  in  a neat  house  near  the  town  she  had  lodged  in.  She 
received  Lady  Cherbury  with  every  demonstration  of  real 
pleasure,  and  both  she  and  her  little  girls  spent  some  time 
with  her  at  the  Abbey. 

The  happy  period  for  completing  the  felicity  of  Oscar  at 
last  arrived.  In  the  chapel  where  his  parents  were  united,  he 
received  from  the  hand  of  Lord  Cherbury  the  lovely  object  of 
his  long-tried  affections.  The  ceremony  was  only  witnessed 
by  his  own  particular  friends;  but  at  dinner  all  the  neighbor- 
ing families  were  assembled,  and  the  tenants  were  entertained 
in  the  great  hall,  where  dancing  commenced  at  an  early  and 
was  continued  till  a late  hour. 

And  now  having  (to  use  the  words  of  Adam)  brought  our 


% 

584  THE  CHILDBEH  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

story  to  the  sum  of  earthly  bliss^  we  shall  conclude^  first  giv- 
ing a brief  account  of  the  characters  connected  with  it. 

Lady  Greystock,  as  one  of  the  most  distinguished,  we  shall 
first  mention.  After  the  death  of  Lady  Euphrasia,  she  found 
her  company  no  longer  desired  at  the  marquis^  and  accord- 
ingly repaired  to  Bath.  Here  she  had  not  been  long  ere  she 
became  acquainted  with  a set  of  female  Puritans,  who  soon 
wrought  a total  change  (I  will  not  say  a reformation)  in  her 
ladyship^s  sentiments;  and  to  give  a convincing  proof  of  this 
bhange,  she  was  prevailed  on  to  give  her  hand  to  one  of  their 
spruce  young  preachers,  who  shortly  taught  her,  what  indeed 
she  had  long  wanted  to  learn,  the  doctrine  of  repentance  ; 
for  most  sincerely  did  she  repent  putting  herself  into  his  power. 
Vexation,  disappointment,  and  grief,  brought  on  a lingering 
illness,  from  which  she  never  recovered.  When  convinced  she 
was  dying,  she  sent  for  Eushbrook,  and  made  a full  confession 
of  her  treachery  and  injustice  to  him,  in  consequence  of  which 
he  took  immediate  possession  of  his  nucleus  fortune;  and  thus, 
in  the  evening  of  his  life,  enjoyed  a full  recompense  for  the 
trials  of  its  early  period.  Lady  Greystock  died  with  some 
degree  of  satisfaction  at  the  idea  of  disappointing  her  husband 
of  the  fortune  she  was  convinced  he  had  married  her  for. 

Mrs.  Howel,  after  visiting  her  son,  retired  to  her  husband^s 
cottage,  where  their  days  glide  on  in  a kind  of  pleasing  melan- 
choly. The  happiness  of  that  son,  and  his  Emily,  is  as  per- 
fect as  happiness  can  be  in  this  sublunary  state. 

Sir  Charles  Bingley,  after  studiously  avoiding  Lord  and 
Lady  Cherbury  for  above  two  years,  at  last,  by  chance,  was 
thrown  in  their  way,  and  then  had  the  pleasure  of  finding  he 
was  not  so  agitated  by  the  sight  of  Amanda  as  he  had  dreaded. 
He  did  not  refuse  the  invitations  of  Lord  Cherbury.  The 
domestic  happiness  he  saw  him  enjoying,  rendered  his  own  un- 
connected and  wandering  life  more  unpleasant  than  ever  to 
him.  Lady  Araminta  Dormer  was  almost  constantly  in  his 
company.  No  longer  fascinated  by  Amanda,  he  could  now  see 
and  admire  her  perfections.  He  soon  made  known  his  admira- 
tion. The  declaration  was  not  ungraciously  received,  and  he 
offered  his  hand,  and  was  accepted — an  acceptance  which  put 
him  in  possession  of  happiness  fully  equal  to  Lord  Cherbury^s. 

The  Marquis  and  Marchioness  of  Eoslin  pass  their  days 
in  gloomy  retirement,  regretful  of  the  past  and  hopeless  of  the 
future.  Freelove  fiutters  about  every  public  place,  boasts  of 
having  carried  off  a Scotch  heiress,  and  thinks,  from  that  cir- 
cumstance, he  may  now  lay  siege  to  any  female  heart  with  a 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


585 


certainty  of  being  successful. 

To  return  once  more  to  the  sweet  descendants  of  the  Dun- 
reath  family.  The  goodness  of  heart,  the  simplicity  of  manners 
which  ever  extinguished  them,  they  still  retain.  From  having 
been  children  of  sorrow  themselves,  they  feel  for  all  who  come 
under  that  denomination,  and  their  charity  is  at  once  bestowed 
as  a tribute  from  gratitude  to  Heaven,  and  from  humanity  to 
want;  from  gratitude  to  that  Being  who  watched  their  unshel- 
tered youth,  who  guarded  them  through  innumerable  perils, 
who  placed  them  on  the  summit  of  prosperity,  from  whence, 
by  dispensing  his  gifts  around,  they  trust  to  be  translated  to  a 
still  greater  height  of  happiness.  Lady  Dunreath^’s  wish  is 
fulfilled.  To  use  her  words,  their  past  sorrows  are  only  re- 
membered to  teach  them  pity  to  the  woes  of  others.  Their  vir- 
tues have  added  to  the  renown  of  their  ancestors,  and  entailed 
peace  upon  their  own  souls.  Their  children,  by  all  connected 
with  them,  are  considered  as  blessings.  Gratitude  has  already 
consecrated  their  names,  and  their  example  inspires  others 
with  emulation  to  pursue  their  courses. 


The  Ehd. 


